


Take Back This Soul That is So Rightfully Mine

by ChasetheWindTouchtheSky



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Non-Canon Healing, Post-Nogitsune, Recovering Fic, Trigger Warnings, post 3b
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 18:54:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 54,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2662721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChasetheWindTouchtheSky/pseuds/ChasetheWindTouchtheSky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes things leave footprints on the soul. After having a terrifying meltdown, Stiles is sent away for professional help. But when he returns to Beacon Hills, it's clear he didn't get the treatment he needed. It doesn't help that a certain Argent is back from the dead, raising hell and reminding everyone of the Argent they lost. Post-Nogitsune. Trigger Warnings. Language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Back This Soul That is So Rightfully Mine

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! So some of you may recognize this fic if you read on Fanfiction.com. I just wanted to put the entirety of the story here with no chapter breaks. Some things you should know before embarking on this story:
> 
> 1\. It is a non-canon compliant healing fiction. It totally disregards Season 4.  
> 2\. It is non beta-ed. 50% because I'm lazy and 50% because I never really thought about it.  
> 3\. If some of the breaks seem a little weird, it's because I was updating it on a chapter-by-chapter basis, so there are weird chapter breaks. I just took them out so they could all be on the same space.  
> 4\. It's a little trigger-y at times about depression and suicide and so read under great discretion!  
> 5\. I hope you like it!

PROLOGUE

If Scott was being completely honest, it was a terrible plan.

He knew it at the time it was suggested, too. He wonders if everyone in the room believed it as well, but was too afraid to voice their opinion after everything with the Nogitsune happened. Like they didn't want the responsibility if it failed. He understood that; they lost too much and too precious people to them to make that mistake again, but now he wished someone would've just said something.

Then he realizes – as he's being thrown across the room, no doubt – that they didn't mention their thoughts about the bad plans much before, either. Except for one person. One person always called everyone out on their bullshit. But that person isn't here and hasn't been for a while.

As Scott brings himself to his feet, watching the massacre of his pack as they're swarmed by hunters and Kate Argent (because apparently reviving humans only applied for the positively psychotic), Scott finds himself wishing there was a swish of plaid and a swing of a bat, even if he knew that it was dangerous. Because the fact of the matter is Stiles isn't here. And he hasn't been for a long time.

Scott knows it's for the best. After his meltdown, he isn't sure if Stiles remaining in Beacon Hills would've been good for anyone. But as Scott's plan is destroyed right before his eyes – watching Isaac filled with arrows and Derek slumped over in the corner of the room – he finds himself wishing his best friend was there. His old friend.

Before everything.

FIVE MONTHS EARLIER

He didn't show up to Allison's funeral.

The funny thing is, nobody really noticed at first. It wasn't until the Sheriff showed up after working a double shift at the station – Beacon Hills Police Department was becoming perpetually more difficult to find employees and some extra shifts were required – that anyone said anything. But when the Sheriff did arrive, after they laid the warrior's body into the ground and everyone's eyes were shining with tears, he leaned in closer to Melissa McCall and whispered in her ear, "Where's Stiles?"

It was obvious that Melissa felt a little guilty for not realizing his absence. She looked around, even though she knew that there was nothing she could do to magically make the teenager appear, but Stiles was nowhere to be found.

He didn't show up to the reception either.

It wasn't until eleven o'clock in the evening did Stiles eventually step through his doorway, his father furious and panicked – borderline ready to filing yet another missing persons report in regards to his son. After the usual yelling and relieved hug, Stiles only muttered one sentence before slumping up to his room, "I lost track of time."

(They both know he was lying, and yet they both ignore it.)

Then he says, "I'm gonna just go to sleep."

(They both know that he's lying about that too.)

Because, Stiles doesn't sleep. Well, not much anyway. He flinches every time Melissa suggests a sedative and everyone knows he won't take one. He's collapsing on himself like an old building, worn away with guilt and sadness. The problem is, everyone else is broken too. Like the blind leading the blind.

Or the broken shattering everywhere.

Allison's absence is felt, but the hearts of darkness eventually dim. It's a week before any of the pack return to school. It's a month before any semblance of normalcy comes about.

But it isn't until Scott asks Stiles to work out with him for lacrosse tryouts until he notices it. Like, really notices it.

Stiles looks like shit, point blank. Like he hasn't healed at all from the Nogistune. In fact, Scott would dare to say he looks even worse because it's all him – all human – and he can tell he is literally falling apart. Like at any moment, if someone startled him enough, he would crumble. Scott can smell the depression on him, the guilt, the sorrow, the pain. It occurs to him that he should've seen it sooner but he was just so damn depressed and sad that Allison no longer walked this planet.

Sure, he was the True Alpha, but wasn't he allowed a little selfishness to grieve?

Now he's not sure.

"I don't think I'm going to be trying out for the team this year," Stiles says distantly, staring at the lock on his locker like he used to – before any of them were aware of the Nogitsune. Scott panics a little, contemplating asking him if he can read it, but Stiles notices and sighs. He flicks the lock until it unclicks and another surge of guilt strikes Scott.

Scott chooses not to acknowledge this unspoken exchange. "Why not?"

Stiles doesn't answer. Like, literally doesn't answer. Which is weird for multiple reasons because A) It's Stiles and when does he not have a million responses to everything? And B) The conversation becomes awkward, which never happens between the two of them.

Stiles instead chooses to say something completely nonsequitor. "I'm gonna go home," he states, closing his locker. "I'm not feeling particularly well today."

He does look like he's about to pass out, but then again he looks like that all the time now. "Yeah," Scott mumbles. "I'm sure everyone will understand."

Scott's not sure how it happens, but Derek, Isaac, and himself drive to the Stilinski residence during lunch. Scott called the Sheriff after Stiles left, and very awkwardly (true to Sheriff Stilinski form) asked if Scott wouldn't mind checking on him. The worry and fear in his voice was prevalent. Scott wondered how long he'd missed that cue, drowning in his own grief.

Isaac offered to come – offered was a stretch, moreover he hopped into the vehicle while announcing 'Derek's coming too because he thinks we should talk to Stiles, maybe get him to see a counselor – and before Scott knew it, the three of them approached the Stilinski house.

Scott's ashamed to note that Derek's the one who noticed it first.

When they enter the house, the only thing Scott realizes is that it's oddly quiet. There isn't the sound of rustling or the light base of All Time Low in the distance. He even finds himself wondering if Stiles is even here. But as soon as Derek steps through the door, his eyes blaze blue and he stiffens. "Can you hear that?" He hisses.

Scott finds himself wishing that he understood more of this werewolf True Alpha thing. But then he does hear it.

A heartbeat.

It's dangerously slow. A human heartbeat shouldn't be that slow. Scott may struggle in Biology sometimes, but he has enough common sense to know that's abnormal. "Oh my God," he breathes and the three of them are bounding up the stairs.

When they reach the top, they can smell it. It's dizzying, the scent of depression, despair, and death. Scott swings open the bathroom door, certain the faint heartbeat is behind it, but he isn't prepared for what he sees.

Stiles is on the floor. 

His entire body is slacken and still, and Scott is horribly reminded of the Nogistune. The memory is so powerful, it paralyzes him slightly, until he finally realizes what he's seeing.

Stiles. On the ground. His eyes closed. And empty pill bottle to his left.

"…ott… Sc… SCOTT!"

Derek's yelling at him, but it takes a while for Scott to realize it. He jerks into motion, grabbing his best friend in the whole world – the friend he had through bullying, break-ups, death of parents, abandonment of parents, when they were nothing – and brings him to the bathtub. Without thinking about it, without thinking about how his heartbeat was slowing and dammit he was dying and they literally just saved him, Scott shoves his fingers down his best friend's throat.

It takes a couple tries, but finally it works and the contents of the pill bottle and the scarce food remnants (speak of which, when was the last time he saw Stiles eat something? Scott finds himself wondering) are in the tub. Stiles chokes out a breath, but he's too out of it to take in the scene before him. Instead he leans his sweating forehead against the wall of the shower, his eyelids closing and Scott can tell he's fading. Isaac is talking to the police and Derek turns on the water above them in a sorry attempt to be helpful, but with how hot Stiles' skin is, Scott can't help but be thankful.

The two of them soak in the freezing tub and Stiles' eyes flicker open and look to Scott. Scott thought that he'd be relieved seeing his friend's gaze, but is stricken at the betrayal curling around his eyes and the strange sense of 'it didn't work.'

No one sees Stiles for a few days. Once word got around that the Sheriff's son tried to kill himself, everyone seemed to be walking on eggshells. Because why would Stiles – a fit of energy and motion, constantly smiling and adding useless facts to every conversation – so something so drastic? No one knows what to say to Scott because somehow it gets around that he found him. What do you say to that?

It isn't until they finally see him does everything really far apart.

Scott doesn't know when exactly he lost his best friend, but it sure as hell wasn't in that bathroom.

Everyone filters in the room because the doctors think it'd be good for him because he's not accepting food and is a few hours away from having an IV in his arm. They've diagnosed him with exhaustion, starvation, dehydration, and depression. That's a lot of scary words for one person and Scott can't bear to hear them.

But as the pack of them look at him, they recoil slightly. Scott doesn't know what he expected, but the cold, steeled stare was not it. Stiles gazes at all of them like they've insulted him. He doesn't take long to break the silence.

"Am I supposed to say thank you?" His voice is like gravel and poison, a whisper of the friend they once knew. "Am I supposed to be all excited about what you did?

"You should've killed me," he continues, his eyes filling with tears. "When everything was happening, you should've killed me. Before anyone had to die. Why didn't you just kill me?"

His scream echoes in the room and Scott feels Lydia flinch at his side. "Stiles—" Scott begins, but Stiles cuts him off.

"No, fuck you!" He shouts, his eyes reddening. "Fuck all of you! I hate you! I hate each and every one of you! Why won't you just let me die? Why do you insist on keeping me chained to this hell on earth? Because anything, and I mean anything would be better! I hate you! I hate you!"

The words hurt.

What was worse was everyone knew they were really saying, "I hate myself."

Present

Scott doesn't blame the Sheriff for sending Stiles away. It had to be done. He needed help and no one could give it to him. He was too fragile, too broken. But then again, so was everyone else. But the five months of radio silence with his best friend was almost too much to bear. He told himself that it was because of whatever program he checked into. The rules made him not reach out.

But he wondered if Stiles was being honest that day. That he truly hated him.

"I can't help but notice that there's one really annoying absence right now." Kate is saying, Scott still trying to get used to her new 'supernatural' appearance. Of all the Argents to come back to life – this pisses Scott off the most. "I see that you're no more an effective Alpha than Derek was."

Isaac and Derek manage to get to their feet and join Scott, but the resigned looks on their faces say that they know this might be the last stand.

"Don't look at me with those puppy eyes, Scott," Kate coos, taking a couple steps closer. "You know how much I've always melted for them."

That's when all hell breaks loose.

There's an explosion, a few shouts, and suddenly all the human hunters are passed out on the ground. Scott can feel his eyes burning and knows it must be some chemical that only annoys the supernatural, because he can see Lydia, Isaac, Kira, and Derek rubbing their eyes.

Once the smoke drifts away and Kate surveys the sudden switch in power, everyone hears a set of footsteps. Scott's eyes widen because he doesn't quite believe that he's seeing what's in front of him, but judging by Isaac and Derek's expressions, it must be real because they're gaping too.

It's Stiles.

Except it's almost not Stiles because he's so different. The muscles that have always hidden under his flannel are more pronounced and there's an air of maturity that he's never had before. It's strange how built he's become – Scott always thought his friend was a little scrawny, but he'd definitely have to reevaluate that description now. Tattoos are peeking from his t-shirt and his jaw is set in a sort of amusement that Scott doesn't quite understand.

But that's not the hardest thing to believe.

It's the fact that Stiles is standing behind Kate Argent with a gun to her head.

Kate slowly turns around, a smile curving on her lips. "Oh dear. How we've… grown."

Stiles smirks. "You should really contemplate wearing perfume to mask that, 'I used to be a corpse' smell."

Kate tilts her head in a condescending fashion. "Come on, sweetie. We both know you're not going to kill me."

Stiles' hand doesn't move. 

"I heard about all your trouble with a certain fox spirit and how you lost your mind over a few measly dead bodies." Kate's eyes fall and Scott can't see past his rage because her niece was one of those bodies and he wants nothing more than to rip her apart. But there seems to be a glint of sorrow in her eyes. It's still not enough for Scott. "You can't kill me."

Stiles' falters. He drops the gun a little, his eyes falling to the ground. "You're right," he says softly. "I can't kill you."

"That's okay sweetie. I always knew you were a little softer than most," Kate says. "Good job knocking everyone out, though."

Stiles clicks the safety off his gun and Kate looks slightly stricken at the hardness around his eyes. "You're right, I'm not gonna kill you. I don't think I could do it – even someone as psychotic as you. But," Stiles' jaw hardens. "I never said I wasn't going to shoot you."

He lowers the gun and fires. Kate screams as blood trickles from her leg and she collapses, attempting to rip the bullet out. Stiles uses the distraction to run over to the group of them – all gaping at him because A) Holy shit, it's Stiles B) He looks like he belongs on a fireman calendar C) He just took down Kate Argent and D) Holy shit, it's Stiles. Stiles nods to Kira, "Can you help Scott out and Lydia can you get Isaac? Derek, you look like you can barely walk, so I'm probably gonna have to carry you."

Nobody moves. "What?" Stiles rolls his eyes. "Yes, I'm Stiles. Nice to see you again. Now run for your life!"

XXX

"Lydia, are you're doing okay?" Stiles hollers from the front, plowing ahead as if he didn't just deadlift Derek and proceed to fireman carry him out of the warehouse. Scott throws a startled look at Lydia who doesn't really seem to be struggling with Isaac per se, but more with the fact that Stiles is in front of her. Scott's not doing so well with that information himself.

Kira pulls Scott forward, the two of them tripping over their feet. To be honest, the look on Stiles face – the one that shows he's about 90% done with this bullshit already and that he's questioning his return already – is one that brings a smile to Scott's face. Underneath the newfound muscles and tattoos – holy shit, tattoos?! Scott thought Stiles hated needles – Stiles still made the animated facial expressions like he couldn't believe that he was surrounded by such idiots all the time.

"I can't believe it, Scott," Scott finally snaps out of his reverie to realize that Stiles is not only still talking, but chastising him in that high-pitched, quick-worded way he missed so terribly. "I cannot fucking believe it. Have you lost your damn mind? Are you clinically insane? Because I gotta tell you, dude, I was clinically insane there for a while and even I would never in my entire life, indulge in a plan that was so inherently stupid like this one. I mean, what the actual fuck were you thinking? That you could talk the psychotic freak of nature that is Kate Argent down from murdering everyone in Beacon Hills? Who's idea was this? Who has their head shoved so far up their ass that they literally cannot see common sense? I want names."

Scott's grinning. He knows if Stiles would turn around and see how Lydia's choking back a grin and even Isaac is rolling his eyes (but in a 'he's back and as endearingly stupid as ever' sort of way), it would only force him to go into another tangent.

Crash.

A thunderous noise emits from behind them and they all reach a dead stop. Stiles does finally turn around, his eyes wide, but not panicked. It's strange to see him so calm. He doesn't leap back at least a foot, like he used to, but sucks in a breath. "Okay dude, I'm sorry, but I gotta set you down." Stiles murmurs to Derek, gently heaving him back over his shoulder and to the floor. Once Derek is no longer his personal scarf, Stiles reaches into his pocket and pulls out a knife, placing it between his teeth. He then rolls up the leg of his pants and retrieves another pistol.

"Good God, who are you? Chris Argent?" Scott cries when Stiles pulls out the other gun from before, looking particularly ridiculous with a pistol in each hand and a knife between his teeth.

Without removing the knife from his mouth, Stiles rolls his eyes so enthusiastically, Scott thought they might fall out of his head. "It's not my fault you were never in the Boy Scouts," Stiles says with a terrifying grin. "Then you'd know to always be prepared."

Stiles charges toward the noise, only stopping to clap a hand on Scott's shoulder and say playfully, "Dude, how are you not dead already, you big, dumb idiot."

Before Scott and yell at Stiles to stop and come back because he's the one being an idiot and gonna get himself killed, Stiles is already out of sight.

"That just happened, right?" Lydia says breathlessly, straining under the weight of Isaac. "That wasn't just some sort of hallucination that all of us had a once, right?"

"Trust me, that was real." Isaac huffs. "I haven't felt this nauseous in a long time and it's definitely a Stiles-thing. The whole 'when you open your mouth, I want to put your head through a wall' thing."

Derek groans, pushing himself to his feet. Scott can see his face flushed with what he can assume is embarrassment, his skin slowly knitting back together like a five-year-old learning to sew. "We speak," he splutters out breathlessly, able to get back up. "about that to no one. The last thing I need people to know that I practically got bridal carried by the Stilinski kid."

Lydia snorts. "I think you think that people care about you much more than they actually do."

Derek gives an offhanded comment back and Scott can't help but be amazed. It'd been so long since they all spoke like this to each other. Five months, to be exact. The past five months have been nothing but grief, guilt, and implied words instead of just saying what they felt. And they sure as hell haven't been teasing each other. But it's simply back into place as if nothing ever changed.

As if no one ever left.

A scream pierces the air and Scott's hear stops. Gunshots resound in the halls and Scott makes a move to sprint back where his best friend would be, but his knees give in and he and Kira tumble to the ground. The once flustered Derek now looks like he's considering the same move, but he can barely stand without swaying. It's the most frustrating and terrifying moment – having all this power and the inability to use any of it.

Seconds melt away like candles; painfully slow.

There's the sound of sprinting and then Stiles reappears, the guns still in his hands, but the knife absent. "That should hold them off until we get to my car!" He rushes, catching Derek before his sway turns into a pitiful collapse. "If you ever wanted to use your supernatural skills to good use, now would be the time! Please and thank you!"

The group of them stumbles, carrying, and trips out of the warehouse, where a piece of crap Jeep is waiting outside. Derek snorts at the sight of it and it's clear that Stiles is A) no longer scared of Derek and B) so done with all this shit that he snaps, "We all don't have disposable incomes. Some of us, who have been freaking nomads for the past five months, have to figure out how to buy things."

The air gets a little stuffier with the vague mention of 'nomad.'

It's a tight fit, but all six of them manage to shove inside the Jeep. Even though he knows he should probably be in the back because of his size, Scott glares at everyone until they get out of his way and allow him to squeeze in the front next to Stiles, on the awkward seat that is really an armrest, but hey, they're breaking a million laws anyway.

Scott can't believe he is sitting right next to his best friend, Stiles' arm drooped lazily over the steering wheel like he always drove. Except there's something different. His eyes.

His eyes are hard. In a terrifying way, they kind of remind him of Derek, particularly when they first met him. They're cold and unyielding, as if the road ahead of them is insulting him. Stiles is deliberately not saying anything or making eye contact with any of them, those cold eyes fixated on the road.

Needless to say, the car ride is tense.

But Scott doesn't care. He's sitting down next to his best friend. He feels that needs repeating. He's sitting down next to his best friend. He repeats those words over and over to himself, only stopping when he realizes that his side – which shockingly remained injury-free – is now sticky with blood. 

After a quick once-over, he realizes that it's coming from Stiles.

"Dude, you're bleeding!" He cries, moving to see red staining his shirt.

Stiles merely snorts, rolling his eyes. "Yeah. Me and the rest of the occupants in the car. I'm just going to have to thrown this piece of shit away because it'd cost more to get the blood out of the upholstery than the car cost."

"I'm being serious, Stiles. Are you okay?" Scott asks because no, Stiles can't be hurt, not right after they got him back.

But unfortunately, he doesn't seem to think the situation is as dire as Scott does. "Superficial. Spoiler alert: Derek, your ex-girlfriend is a Grade-A bitch."

Derek grunts, but Scott's pretty sure it's in agreement.

"We can heal, Stiles," Scott is arguing, annoyed with Derek for not adding anything helpful.

"Dude, so can I." Stiles says. "Just because I'm a human, doesn't mean I'm an invalid."

"But—"

"Stiles," Lydia says softly, putting her hand gently on Scott, who feels his eyes flickering a deep red because he doesn't know what to do with his emotions at the moment. "You're back."

The statement falls like a rock in the ocean. With a clunk and myriad of ripples through everyone in the vicinity. "Yeah," Stiles says distantly, like he can't believe it himself. The word is sad and heavy. All Scott wants to do is grab his friend and shake him. Shake sense into him. Tell him how awful the past five months have been, how scared he always is, how much he misses everyone, and what a dick he was to never call, but to let him know that he's needed and necessary and holy shit, he never realized how much he missed his best friend until this moment.

That'd probably be unhelpful, though.

"I'm back."

Stiles grips the steering wheel at the words, his knuckles whitening and his face growing pale. Scott doesn't know what to do because he can hear Stiles' heart pick up pace and his fingers tremble. But then Lydia reaches over him and places her hand on Stiles' leg, a few drops of blood dripping on her porcelain skin, but if it bothers her, she doesn't show it.

The reaction is almost instantaneous. Scott can hear Stiles' heartbeat stutter for a moment and then gradually calm back down. He gives an uneasy laugh, as if he just told a really dumb joke and no one responded.

His eyes never leave the road.

Scott feels a little uncomfortable with Lydia draped across him like that, so she could touch Stiles, but then he realizes maybe it wasn't quite fair that he commandeered his friend. It's hard for him to remember sometimes that it isn't just 'him and Stiles' anymore, like it was a few years ago. No one would've really cared if either of them just disappeared for a few months, he can't help but think begrudgingly, and sometimes it's hard to understand that now there are a lot of people who care if one of them disappears. Even Danny – whom Scott thought was blissfully ignorant about everything – asked if Stiles was kidnapped by a werewolf or something when he didn't show up to school for the second week in a row.

They really should stop talking about the supernatural at lunch.

When Stiles pulls up to his destination, Scott's surprised. He knows he shouldn't be, but Stiles had been gone so long, it was weird to think that he'd just remember how to get to Deaton's. Then Scott remembers he was only gone for five months.

It felt so, so much longer.

Stiles jumps out of the car – not smooth enough for Scott not to notice the wince as he does so – and manages to wrap an arm around Derek, while pulling him out of the vehicle. The six of them stumble inside Deaton, who's eyebrows lift in surprise at Stiles, but that's as much emotion as they get out of the stoic vet. The three werewolves allow themselves to be checked out by Deaton (Derek at least a little begrudgingly because he's, well, Derek), but insists that all the wounds are clean of any infection or magic that could hinder that process. They just have to wait.

It's then the vet turns his attention to Stiles, who's leaning against the back wall, away from everyone, uncomfortably playing with one of his guns, unloading it and taking it apart.

"Stiles," Deaton says and the teen looks up, his eyes the youngest they've been since the surprised reuniting. "I take it that you left the center I recommended you to."

Stiles gives a hollow laugh. "Left," he repeats under his breath like there was something so profoundly upsetting about that word, that all he can do is chuckle about it. Stiles looks up and stares the vet in the eyes. "It wasn't exactly how you described it."

Deaton's brows furrow. "No?"

Stiles shrugs one of his shoulders as if he didn't have an opinion regarding the matter, but Scott knows his best friend well enough to see he has a very strong opinion regarding the matter, but he's choosing not to acknowledge it, which is the weirdest thing of all. Stiles' fingers move quickly around the weapon in his hands and there are a few silent minutes as they all are staring at him. It doesn't take long for the gun to be in pieces beside him. "I really don't like guns," Stiles says to himself as he nudges a few of the pieces away from him, pulling out the other and starting the process over.

"Stiles," Deaton says. "Does your father know you're back home?"

Stiles' head jerks up and all it takes is a look in his eyes to understand that no, the Sheriff does not know his son is back. It only takes another second for Scott to guess why.

Just in case he didn't stay.

His hands are trembling and his face is pale. Scott thinks that he's going to have to talk Stiles down from a panic attack like he used to do when they were younger. The shaking gets worse and Stiles sets the second gun down, only partially taken apart.

His eyes set on the group of them, all facing him like they weren't sure what he'd do or how he'd react to them, and Scott can tell that it hurts him that they're all unsure. Then, his eyes grow distant. "Stiles," Scott manages to get out before the teen collapses on the floor.

"Stiles!" Scott shouts, grabbing his friend and placing him on the animal table, his hands shaking. "Deaton, we need to call the hospital!"

"Not with the trio of you looking like that," Deaton says calmly, although his eyes are wide. He takes a glance at Stiles and exhales. "I think I can help him here. But I do think that you should call the Sheriff. And perhaps your mother."

Isaac takes out his phone and proceeds to do so because Scott's essentially useless at this moment. Or rather, has the very important task of holding his hand like he's afraid if he lets go, Stiles will vanish again. Now that he's spread on the table like this, Scott curses himself for not checking that Stiles was actually alright. Claw marks climb up his chest as if Kate swiped at him as he was escaping, managing to four claws to sweep through his skin. The bleeding has slowed and it probably isn't as bad as Scott's making it in his head, but his hands still quake as Deaton cuts down the middle of his shirt and pulls it off of him.

The tattoos are everywhere. For someone who vowed never to get one, there was a lot of breaking that promise written all over his body. Scott's dazzled by the art of it – there's no color but breathtaking black and white scenes depicted all over his chest, running to his back. It isn't until Lydia makes a comment does he realize their purpose.

Lydia's stepped to the other side of Stiles, absently running her fingers through his hair. Scott isn't sure she even knows she's doing it, but doesn't have the heart to say anything. He knows what it's like to be without an anchor. Sure, she may have been his publically, but Scott knows Lydia well enough that she considered him hers. She just never said it out loud. Or, at least he assumes he is. It's been a while since he's seen Lydia this relaxed.

But she's running her thin fingers over some of the designs, tracing the circles and lineart like his chest was made of sand. "Scars," she mutters, her voice sad.

At first, Scott isn't sure what she means. But sure enough, once he gets past the who 'Stiles is covered in tattoos and this is the weirdest thing that's happened in a while' thing, he sees it. Underneath the blanket of ink are white lines. Lash lines. Scar that travel from his shoulders, chest, and Scott can only assume, his back.

Whipping scars.

Scott lets go of Stiles hand because the rage that hits him is so consuming, he's genuinely afraid he might squeeze too hard, he'll break his hand. "Where did you send him?" Scott growls at Deaton.  
It's clear Deaton is just as startled as everyone else. Granted, he keeps his head down as he carefully sews Stiles' skin back together, but he smells of confusion and guilt. That's not a combination that Scott's ever smelt on him.

The door of the clinic slams against the wall and it doesn't take a genius to know who's arrived. The Sheriff comes barreling into the room, Scott's mom hot on his heels, choking when he sees his son. "What—" is all he manages to get out because Scott's fairly certain his thought process is first that Stiles is back, then that he's unconscious, and finally that he is almost unrecognizable.

Deaton finishes his stitches, cutting the thread and stepping away from the teen. He seems to be preparing himself for something and it doesn't take long for everyone to experience exactly what that something was.

The Sheriff, his face contorted in rage, shouts, "You said he'd be safe!" He rounds on Deaton, his hand instinctually going to the weapon his side and Scott leaps in between the two.

The Sheriff realizes what he's doing and blinks. The anger disappears only for a second, though. "You promised me it'd be the best thing for him! That he'd finally get better! You assured me that it was in his best interest!"

"Trust me, Sheriff, I thought it was," Deaton says, very still for someone who's being threatened by a man with a gun. "I have no idea what happened. No idea whatsoever."

"Do you know what it's been like?" The Sheriff plows ahead, his face gathering to an unhealthy shade of red. "Do you know what it's like to simply send your son away, under the recommendation of someone you thought knew what the hell they were talking about, only to have him show up looking like… looking like… this?" The Sheriff waves his arms frantically at Stiles, barely registering that Lydia's grasping his hand tightly and sitting so close to his head, that if Stiles were awake, someone might mistake them for kissing. "I haven't spoken to my son, the only family I have left in this world, for five months because you said it was necessary! And this is the end result! Are you insane?"

"Think of your blood pressure, Pops," a weak voice says with a chuckle.

Everyone in the room stills. Stiles groans, pushing himself into a sitting position, but the noise he makes as he tries to do so indicates that was a terrible idea. The Sheriff seems distracted enough to end his bloodlust and he scurries to Stiles side, gently pushing him back down. "I don't think so, mister," the Sheriff says, laying a hand on his chest. "We're taking you to the hospital to get a check-up and I don't want you so much as lifting a finger."

"That'll be awfully difficult, Dad, if you really want me to go anywhere," Stiles jokes back, but his eyes are filling with tears.

The Stilinskis reuniting is always something that made Scott feel a pang of jealousy for, but this moment is so intimate between the two, that he actually has to look away. The Sheriff is looking at his son as if he's found the lost gold of El Dorado and the hardness has melted from Stiles' eyes. For the first time since Scott's seen him, he looks like Stiles in every way. Well, besides the skin.

"Aw, come on, Dad," Stiles says with a weak grin. "It's but only a flesh wound."

The Sheriff huffs a laugh that is equal parts relieved, upset, overjoyed, and exasperated. He looks like he may actually explode at any moment. "Monty Python, Stiles? Really?"

Stiles faintly pats his father's hand. "Don't worry, I've had worse."

The gravity of his words seem to hit him after he say it and his eyes widen.

They hang in the air.

XXX

Scott can't bring himself to be strong in this moment.

He's standing outside the door of Stiles' hospital room, a sickening sense of déjà vu striking him. He wants to go in, make sure his best friend is okay, but his hand hovers above the handle. He can't bring himself to have a repeat of last time. He can't hear his best friend say he hates him again. Scott doesn't think he could bear it a second time.

His entire pack surrounds him, not making any move to usher him inside. No one even goes in before him. He wonders if it's an Alpha-thing, that they're all waiting for him out of a respect, but he kinda wishes someone would take the initiative because he's tired of being the one to do so. So tired.

"—Dad, I told you, I'm fine!" Scott hears through the door. Stiles' voice is a little pained, but hard.

"Stop saying that, Stiles! Because it's obviously not true!" Mr. Stilinski yells back. Scott uses this argument as an excuse for his hesitation, stepping back from the door for a less-volatile moment to enter the room. "Last time you were here, telling me that you were fine – even though both of us obviously knew you were not – you almost died. I'm not going to pretend everything's fine when it's not, Stiles. I'm not losing you again. That's not happening, I won't allow it. Do you hear me, kid? I won't allow it."

"I know, Dad." Stiles' voice is small, scared. Human. It's like his humanity is shoved away in the corner of his mind, and only small moments reveal it. Why would he try so hard to cover it up? It's what made him Stiles. "I know that."

Neither of them say anything after that, but Scott can hear their shallow breathing. There's a squeak of pain and Scott knows that the Sheriff must've pulled Stiles into a tight hug. Scott looks to the ground. He, of all people, understands the sheer dependency of a family of two. Sometimes he wonders if he's the one breaking the Stilinskis apart. Maybe he is. If that's the case, he definitely too selfish to do anything of the matter.

After no one speaks for a moment, Scott takes this moment to open the door. The Stilinskis are apart, Stiles sitting sheepishly on the bed, bandages running up his side and the Sheriff looking intently at a couple prescriptions in his hand. Stiles looks up at Scott and for a moment, Scott forgets everything that's happened between them.

The corners of his mouth turn up and Stiles breaks into a small smile, that darkness evaporating from his eyes. It's fleeting – the smile falls only a few seconds later – but it's there. Scott takes that as a victory, so much better than the last time he walked into a hospital room with Stiles in it. He lets go of the breath he doesn't realize he's holding and moves so everyone else can enter the room.

Lydia's far against the wall, as if she wants to put as much space between herself and Stiles as possible, but Scott hears her soft voice pipe up, "So, are you okay, Stiles?"

Stiles lifts an eyebrow. "Yeah, I think so."

The Sheriff snorts.

"Don't listen to my Dad," Stiles rolls his eyes. "It may not seem like it from his appearance, but he has a flair for the overdramatic. They've given me enough pain pills to stun a large horse, so I'll be more content than if Derek's ex-girlfriend didn't just try and disembowel me."

A low growl comes from Derek's corner of the room. "Stop calling her my ex-girlfriend."

Stiles impish grin falters. "Sorry. Habit, I suppose."

Scott wants to slap Derek, even though he knows that's not fair. But for a second, the old Stiles was back. He doesn't want anything chasing that away. "Seriously, man." Scott says, his eyes pleading. "How are you?"

Stiles refuses to meet his eye. Anyone's, really. Instead he focuses on the ground, his eyes brimming with tears, as if he's willing himself to remain steely. "Not sure," he answers honestly, which startles everyone in the room, including his own father, who almost drops his prescriptions in surprise. Even though he's not looking at them, he lets out a weak chuckle. "Don't act so stunned. I can talk about my feelings sometimes. It's more of a seasonal thing."

Stiles bites his lip and he just looks so vulnerable. Sure, his physical appearance has changed, the lines in his face have deepened, and his words have an air of sadness. But he looks small. Like something that needs to be supported – protected. Scott vows in this moment to make sure he is, from this point on.

"I'm so sorry, guys," Stiles says so quickly, Scott isn't sure he heard him correctly. He finally looks up, his eyes dry, but reddening around the corners like he's using every force of will within him to keep from crying. "I gotta say this before I lose the nerve, so just let me get through this and then you can ask all your questions and I can pretend not to hear them and be frustratingly deflective.

"W-What I said to you, what I did—" Stiles grits his teeth like the memory is actually hurting him, but then Scott realizes, it probably is. "I didn't mean it." It's like he can't bring himself to say the 'hate' word. Maybe he can't. Scott desperately wished he could see what's going on in his head. "I-I found out something after I went away.

"Apparently certain things leave marks." Stiles shrugs. "Like scars." He absently touches some of his tattoos on his back, but then Scott realizes he's tracing the lashes. "Like when your heart's broken, when people… die." He chokes on the last word. "Those are scars that slowly fade away. But I guess that with the Nogitsune, they do more than that.

"Did you know there aren't many documented human survivals of Nogitsune possession? There's really only enough to count on one hand," Stiles shrugs, but Scott can tell he's cursing that group that he never wanted be a part of. "And when Nogitsune's leave, they leave a sort of… imprint. A… A…

"A shadow."

When Stiles says the word, his entire body freezes. Scott knows exactly where his mind is going and what he's playing in his head. Everyone has it, but no one can lose it. What is it, Stiles? What is it? Scott instinctively reaches out to him, but stops. Does this new Stiles respond well to that? Or would he retreat back into himself?

"Kinda like handprints," Stiles continues after he collects himself. "On the soul. Places where the Nogitsune touched that stay with you. That you feel. That darkens the world just that little extra that makes it unbearable.

"After I… left the clinic I went to," Stiles says, his jaw clenching and eyes hardening. The sudden change is so powerful, Scott can feel the waves of anger rolling off of Stiles like waves on a beach. Scott looks stricken at the Sheriff, who without wolf powers can clearly tell the change. His eyes narrow as he looks at his son, clearly struggling to bite his tongue, wanting the ask the one question everyone wants to know.

What the hell happened in that clinic?

"I tried to find the people who survived a Nogitsune possession." Stiles shrugs. "They're all dead."

An uncomfortable silence settles in the room.

"They all killed themselves." Stiles says hauntingly, a small part of his voice seemingly wistful, as if he's slightly jealous of their success. And it's positively terrifying. "Every last one. Most within a month of being free of the Nogistune. Isn't that the most ironic thing?" He says with a hard laugh. "It's like the last move played by the Nogitsune. A Plan B, if you will. All these people worked so hard to save them, and he takes them away when they think their safe. One final move that destroys all the players. Game. Set.

Match."

"So it wasn't you, then?"

Everyone turns to Lydia, who's still pressed up against the wall, but her skin even paler and tears running down her cheeks. Stiles stares at her, as if he didn't understand the question, even though they all heard it. But she pushes further. "So it wasn't you who… who tried…"

"I don't know," Stiles answers with mercy, cutting her off before she starts weeping. "And I'm not saying that to be difficult or whatnot, but I genuinely don't know. Sometimes – especially back then – it's difficult to separate what I'm thinking and what it wants me to feel. I'm inclined to say no, but I don't know if that's true. I wish it is, but the fact that I'm wishing it to be true is pretty clear evidence that it isn't.

"But I didn't mean what I said. That I'm completely sure of. I just—" Stiles exhales in frustration, running his fingers through hair.

He doesn't continue.

Just like he said, every question they ask is soon deflected somewhere else. Stiles was always good at that.

XXX

The Sheriff doesn't say anything when Scott gets in the car with them to leave the hospital. He doesn't say anything when they stop by the pharmacy and Scott stays in the car with Stiles as he fills the prescriptions. And he doesn't say anything when Scott runs and opens the door as the Sheriff is helping Stiles into the house. The only time he says anything is when the three of them reach Stiles' room.

"Make sure you call your mother and let her know you're staying over."

Scott agrees to do so.

When the two reach Stiles' room, Stiles hesitates. Everything's the same. Scott understands. He had the same reaction when Allison died. He went in his room and everything was exactly as he left it. There were the same posters on his wall and homework on his table. It should've been different. He couldn't help but feel like it should've been different, after everything.

But everything's the same.

It's an awful reminder that sometimes times doesn't care and simply leaves you behind.

Taking in a deep breath, Stiles steps into the room and looks around. He looks over to his bed and extends a shaking hand out. Scott watches him curiously as he runs his fingers up and down his comforter. "Wow," he breathes, sitting down on the bed. "I forgot how soft it is."

That sentence alone is enough to make tears come to Scott's eyes. Scott follows suit and sits next to him, making sure they're close enough to touch. The bed isn't really anything special. If anything, Scott thinks his is much more comfortable. It's a weird thing to be thinking about, given the circumstance.

"I missed you, man." Scott says quietly because he knows Stiles isn't going to address the tension.

"Yeah."

Scott touches his shoulder with his and Stiles freezes, but Scott refuses to move. At this point, he simply does not care. "I have to know. I know you mentioned it at the hospital, but I need you to tell me." Scott pleads, Stiles looking at him curiously. "Did you mean it? Did you mean what you said?"

Stiles' eyes soften. "Scott. I have never and could never hate you."

Scott can't take it anymore. He takes the opportunity to wrap his best friend in a hug, careful not to shift him or his slashes, clutching the folds of his shirt. He can't help but feel like this is too perfect. That it has to be a dream. And if it is, if this moment is but a mere dream and his best friend will drift away when he opens his eyes, he's going to spend every second with him until they do. "Please don't leave," he whispers in Stiles ear. "I know you've been thinking about it since you saved us, but please, please don't leave."

When they break apart, Scott sees the pain in Stiles eyes. And the weight of what he's asking of his best friend. But he doesn't care. He's going to ask it because he needs it. And in this moment, he's going to allow himself this spot of selfishness.

Stiles looks out the window, then back to his hands. "I promise," he says softly, each syllable coming out as if they are piercing him. They probably are. If Scott was a better person, he would retract his favor. But he can't. He simply can't.

The two lay back on Stiles' bed, Stiles letting out a pleased noise when his head hits his pillow. "My pillow," he says wistfully, a childish smile tugging his lips. "Oh how I'm missed you, you feathery friend."

Scott snorts and considers telling him he should question his life if his most intimate relationship is with a pillow, but decides against it. Instead, he focuses on something else. "School starts in a few days. Senior year."

Stiles lifts an eyebrow. "Wow," he breathes. "Sometimes I forget normal things happen."

Scott grins. "Yeah, it's weird, right?"

"So weird."

Scott looks at him. "Are you going?"

Stiles frowns. "I never finished my junior year."

"Stiles, you were on track to graduate early. You had senior status in your junior year. They wouldn't hold you back."

The frown doesn't disappear. "I suppose not."

"Will you go?"

"I don't know. It seems sort of weird to go back to high school. After… everything."

Scott rolls on his side to face him. "Stiles, what happened to you? What happened in the past five months? What's with the tattoos and scars and suddenly being all Die Hard with weapons? What happened?"

Stiles doesn't answer for a moment. Scott thinks he's ignoring the question and when he's about to call him out on it, Stiles sucks in a breath. "I-I can't talk about it," he mumbles, absently rubbing his arms. "I-I just… can't. Can't relive it. Not right now."

Scott can read between the lines.

Not right now, when I'm trying so desperately hard to keep myself together.

XXX

In the end, Stiles agrees to enroll for his senior year. As Scott thought, he has no trouble enrolling as a senior and even has the possibility to graduate early still. No one questions his five month absence, mainly because they assume he went to a clinic after his suicide attempt. Scott supposes they're right, for the most part.

Scott still is trying to adjust himself to this new, secretive, collected, and reserved Stiles, but he knows he can't complain. Because, fact of the matter is, he's here. Physically, at least. Sometimes Scott can see his mind wander off into other worlds and it takes time to get him back. He never acknowledges it.

The oddest thing though, isn't the still body or the thinking before he speaks. It's the fact that he is outright avoiding Lydia. Lydia, who casually tried several times to get together with him, always called Scott after in frustration that he either A) cancelled at the last minute or B) invited other people along and then chose to ignore her. It wasn't until Isaac rolled his eyes at the two of them did the two of them realize why.

Isaac huffed. "Isn't it obvious? Last time he was around Lydia, his demonic alter ego kidnapped her, locked her in a facility that had a massacre, and murdered her boyfriend. I think, if anything, he's afraid she'll slap him."

Scott isn't sure how one goes about starting a conversation of 'remember that time you kidnapped me? I'm not really mad because it wasn't you,' but Lydia makes it her goal to corner him on the first day of school.

The first day comes, eventually. Scott offers to go with Stiles, but Stiles says that he's walking to clear his head, so he'd see him there. Before Scott can offer to walk with him, he hangs up the phone.

Scott's so nervous about this first day that he's actually buzzing with excitement. "Calm down there, fella," Kira laughs endearingly at his side, patting his shoulder. Scott tries to simmer his nerves, but it doesn't help. "He'll show up. He promised he would."

"The thing is, I wouldn't blame him if he didn't." Scott says. "I shouldn't have asked him to stay. What if it just gets bad again?"

"I don't think it will," Kira chirps. "He's so much better than he was."

"That standard is impossibly low, considering." Scott groans.

Lydia struts toward them, her outfit perfectly planned out per the usual, her eyes darting around the school halls. She looks like she simply taking in all the new students, but Scott chuckles. "He's isn't here yet."

"I have no idea what you're referring to."

"Sure you don't."

She opens her mouth to retort, but pauses when the school doors open again.

Stiles trudges down the hallway, his head down and his hands clutching his backpack. It doesn't help – people stare at him anyway. Scott can tell that he's struggling to keep it together, but he finally approaches them. He's wearing one of his old hoodies, but it barely fits anymore and Stiles sighs once he approaches them.

As if he can read their minds, he glances at the tight fabric across his chest. "Nothing I own fits me anymore."

Scott snorts. "No, really?"

"I know I look like a douche, no need to stare." Stiles grumbles, moving to open his locker. "I didn't realize it until this morning."

"Maybe you should've gotten out of sweats one day in the past week," Scott offers.

"First of all, screw you," Stiles says good-naturedly. "Second of all, how was I supposed to know that somehow I expanded twice my old size?"

"How could you not know?" Lydia exclaims, turning a bright red when everyone looks at her in surprise. She tilts her head upward, as if willing her embarrassment to filter out of her system. "Stiles, you and I are having lunch together today. By ourselves."

Stiles eyes widen and he says, "But I—"

"No arguments. A note, just in case you bring anyone else along: I know five ways to murder you and not leave a trace."

Stiles looks like he's going to retort again, but then they notice Coach Finstock walking toward them and they all grow quiet. "Stilinski," he says with a note of surprise in his voice. "You're back."

Stiles grimaces at the statement. "Looks like it."

"Holy crap, kid. Did you spend the past five months in a gym?"

Stiles smiles weakly. "I played the piano, mostly."

Coach Finstock rolls his eyes. "Whatever you say, Stilinski. Just make sure you make it to tryouts on time."

Stiles frowns. "I'm not trying out, Coach."

Scott stills. This déjà vu is too strong. Stiles must see his apparent panic, because he backtracks. "Not like… like that, but I just don't think I can right now. I'm not sure… it's not really for me, you know?"

It's obvious that Coach does not know. "It's your senior year."

"I know."

"You can't leave me with Greenberg."

Stiles laughs, like really laughs. It's warm and startling. Scott can't help but grin. "Sorry Coach. I was never much good anyway."

"It looks like you've probably improved."

Stiles puts his backpack in his locker. "Your confidence in me is very touching."

"Stilinski—"

"Coach, I gotta get to class."

"Wait," Coach says, grabbing his shoulder. He seems startled and mutters to himself, "Crap, biceps. Dammit Stilinski." But then shakes his head. "I was sent here to tell you that you've been scheduled for weekly counseling appointments. Mainly because… you know…"

"It's school policy," Stiles nods. "It's okay, Coach. I get it."

Coach is relieved that he doesn't have to dwell on it further. "Good. And good news, you won't have to see anyone new."

Stiles frowns. "Anyone new?"

Just then, Ms. Morrell rounds the corner, holding a few books in hand. She catches Stiles' eye and he freezes. "N-No," he stammers, taking a step back. "Is this a joke?"

Scott looks at him, confused. "Dude, what's up?"

Stiles ignores him. "No. Hell no. No." He repeats this over and over, the books in his hands tumbling to the floor as the trembling in his hands increase.

Ms. Morrell approaches them, a reproachful look on her face. "Stiles," she says, her voice filled with warning.

"You stay away from me," Stiles snaps, his words laced with venom. "Don't you fucking come near me!"

"Stilinski!"

"No! I won't!" Stiles shouts, his legs faltering as he tries to retreat. People have stopped in the hall to watch, but Stiles continues to back up. "You can't make me. I'll literally talk to anyone else. Fuck, I'll talk to Greenberg!"

"Stiles," Ms. Morrell says again. "This is neither the time nor place."

"What? You need a specific place to threaten me or is it more of an audience thing?" Stiles cries. "How long do I have to talk to you before you give me another 'gift,' or was that a one time thing?"

"Stiles—"

"Don't worry, Ms. Morrell. No need to 'maintain balance.'" Stiles says bitterly. "I haven't been going to sleep. In fact, I haven't slept like a normal, function person in five months, so I think I just graduated your counseling. So thanks for all your help." Stiles spits bitterly. He whirls around, his entire body quaking and his breathing heavy.

As he rushes out of the hall, Scott can hear him shout, "Next time we speak, I expect more illicit drugs."

XXX

"Scott, where is he?" Lydia's voice is high-pitched as she rushes next to Scott, who's pattering of her heels start grating on his nerves. "He is in your pack, doesn't that mean anything? Can't you like, sense him or something? I have seen him have a panic attack in the past and so I did some more research about them and he was exhibiting three of the signs of a panic attack! And he needs someone there to help talk him down. He needs someone to help him before it gets too bad! He needs—"

"I know, Lydia!" Scott snaps and he feels bad about it, but not enough to apologize. "It's just been so long since I've been around him and he smells different than he used to. I'm trying, but he's… different."

"What if he leaves again, Scott?" Lydia presses on. "What if he is gone now? He can't be gone just when we got him back! I-I—" Lydia trails off. She was never really good at expressing her emotions. The only person who was good at getting Lydia to open up was Stiles. Given the circumstance, it's enough to drive anyone to hysterics.

Scott sighs. "He won't leave." He says in a small voice.

Lydia's eyes flash and she rounds on him in a way that is positively terrifying. "You can't possibly know that! He's already left once!"

"He won't because I asked him not to!" Scott shouts. As he's saying the words, it makes them so much worse. The weight of what he asked him and the selfishness of the request. Because he knew – deep in his heart, Scott knew – that if he asked anything of Stiles, Stiles would do it. And he did. Scott wasn't sure of much – where Stiles was, what was going on his head, what happened in the clinic, what was going on with Ms. Morrell, oh God, the list was endless – but he was sure that he would stay.

He peers over at Lydia, who's looking at him with an expression he doesn't quite understand. "Look, I know I shouldn't have! I know how wrong it was and how I'm probably abusing our friendship, but—"

Lydia places her hand on his arm, stopping the steam of words coming out of his mouth. "Thank you."

His breath hitches. "W-What?"

"He wouldn't have agreed to anyone else."

"That's what makes it so bad. I—" Scott stops, the scent hitting him. It's panicked and scared, guilty and depressed. "He's on the lacrosse field."

Lydia and Scott sprint through the school, getting scolded by teachers who pass. Scott wants to run faster, but knows that Lydia would skewer him if he did so. And Lydia is far more terrifying than most obstacles he's faced.

By the time they reach the lacrosse field, there's a figure lying stationary on the ground. From what Scott can tell, he's not moving. But he can hear the steady, rhythmic beating of his heart. They sprint toward Stiles, only to find him on his back, staring at the sky. When they approach, he doesn't acknowledge them. After a few uncomfortable moments, Stiles points to the sky. "That cloud looks like a monkey."

Scott and Lydia go on either side of him and lay down. Scott tells himself that he shouldn't look at his best friend, so he actively forces himself to stare at the sky and find silly animals in the clouds. He points up. "That one looks like a cat."

"Dude, no it doesn't. I thought being a werewolf gave you super sight powers." Stiles says with a weak chuckle. The three remain silent for several minutes. It's actually quite nice, not talking. Scott never realized it before because usually there's sound if Stiles is involved, but it's was nice for all of them to simply be. It doesn't take long for him to get weary of it, though. He wants his best friend to rant about something. To talk his ear about something. To… something.

"Just ask." Stiles says, not removing his gaze from the sky. "I know you both want to know. It may save time to simply ask."

Scott doesn't though. He can't bring himself to do it, even though he's been given the perfect chance. Of course, Lydia doesn't have the same hesitation. "What was that all about, Stiles?"

Stiles breathes heavily, clenching his fists at his sides. "You guys are going to think I'm stupid, considering. It's so, so stupid. I'm stupid."

Lydia's voice is soft. Scott doesn't remember the last time it was so soft, if ever. "What is stupid, Stiles?"

His hands are on his chest and he's twisting them. "It was Eichen House."

Scott freezes at his side.

Stiles never spoke of what happened in Eichen House. Even after the Nogistune possession, before all the darkness fell again, he avoided every inquiry regarding the matter. Even Malia wouldn't saying anything, even if Scott pressed. It was like a something that never happened. Probably more of something he wished never happened.

"Sometimes I play what happened there in my head and it feels like it wasn't real." Stiles starts. "Did you know about an hour after my dad dropped me off, I knew I shouldn't have been there? It was pretty obvious. I just… knew. It was an awful feeling. Did I ever tell you guys that someone hung himself in front of me within the first few minutes of me being there?"

Scott hears Lydia gasp at his side and he feels like he can't breathe. What. Happened. There is so much to this story he doesn't know and he doesn't know how that's possible. How much has Stiles kept from him over the years? What does he not know?

"Of course I didn't. I haven't really wanted to… I didn't think I could…" Stiles sighs, his voice distant and full of pain. "It was actually the Nogitsune. He controlled my roommate which was more obvious, but he also made someone kill themselves in front of me. It wasn't until later when we were connected did he let me know it was him. It was for two reasons, actually. The one I assumed – that he was proving he could take control and kill all of you if he wanted to. That was what I thought was his intention, but as it turns out, it was much further than that." Stiles breath hitches as he manages out, "Always thinking two moves ahead." Stiles coughs, returning to his rigid state. "Anyway, it was also because when something like that happens, they shut down communication in the entire facility for twenty-four hours. So, I was trapped. I couldn't call anyone, talk to anyone, or leave. It… wasn't the best."

Scott's hands are in fists. He wants to break something – or someone, he's not picky. This story is getting worse and it's all he can do to control his wolf altogether. The sky, he has to look at the sky.

"It turns out, Ms. Morrell is the counselor there too." Stiles says and Scott hears Lydia squeak. "I was in one of her sessions and the lichen that Deaton poisoned me with was spreading and visible on my neck, so she called me into her office. I thought to talk about everything. I even was a little hopeful because I thought maybe she had some insights. Maybe… maybe something good could happen. For once." He sighs. "But, she kinda, uh, gave me a bottle of essentially the medical equivalent to Speed and told me to stay awake. Otherwise…" He trails off.

When he doesn't answer again, Scott reminds himself his voice needs to remain under control. "Otherwise what, Stiles?"

Stiles lets out a heartless laugh. "You see, this is the part you're going to laugh at me. Because it makes sense. It makes that she would want to do this and I just, I mean seeing her is just—"

"What did she say she would do to you." Not a question.

"Dude, you already know the answer." Stiles shuts his eyes, as if he's hearing her again.

Scott knows his eyes are red. He's doing everything he can to calm himself down. The Nogistune did so much more than he thought. He trapped Stiles in a cage like an animal. And now he has the instincts of one. An animal, desperately trying to survive.

"And I hope you two know," Stiles continues when neither of them say anything. "I know that it was necessary. And she should've done that. I know it. I just – it was just not the greatest to be trapped in a mental institution and the one person you thought was on your side was giving you illicit drugs and threatening to kill you if you went to sleep. Which, by the way, I ended up getting tossed into an isolation room for and sedated against my will because they found them, and it's not like I could actually say the sentence, 'The secret Emissary who works for you gave them to me because I'm being possessed by a Nogitsune.' They'd never let me leave."

He exhales.

"You can't possibly mean that." Lydia snaps, bolting upright.

Stiles joins her, his hair tousled in a way that makes him look like he's just woken up. "I can't possibly mean what? I told you, I know why she said she had to do it, it's just like this visceral reaction that I can't really control, I just—"

"That!" Lydia cries. "You can't possibly mean that it was alright for her to give you illegal drugs and then threaten to kill you if you ever fell asleep? On what planet is that alright?"

Stiles shoots up so quickly from the ground that it startles both of them. He turns to face them, his eyes wide. "Um, planet earth? I was killing people!"

Lydia's on her feet. "It wasn't you, Stiles!" She's shouting, her voice filled with so much passion, it's almost terrifying.

"Oh my God, stop saying that!" Stiles bellows, running his fingers through his hair exasperatedly. "I'm sick and tired of everyone saying that! It was me! It was me!" Stiles is pointing at himself so vigorously, Scott is genuinely concerned he might bruise his sternum. "It was my hands that were covered in Coach's blood! In Scott's!" He gestures wildly. "When will you people stop pretending that I am a better person than I am? If I had been stronger, if I had been better, none of this would've happened! It wasn't enough! I am not enough!"

"Then why did you come back!" Lydia shouts, tears rolling down her cheeks. "Why did you come back at all?"

"To make sure you all were okay!" Stiles snaps, his voice echoing in the field.

That makes Scott jump to his feet. "What?"

Stiles winces, obviously wishing he never said anything. His eyes are darting around the field, desperately looking for an escape. "I-I heard Kate Argent was back," he says with a shrug. "That she came back from the dead or never died – whatever happened. And I thought, maybe, since she did and another… Argent didn't, maybe you guys needed… I don't know!" Stiles groans. "I never actually meant to talk to you. I just wanted to make sure you guys were okay. But then you idiots almost died and I had to!"

"So," Scott begins, his head swimming. "You came back to make sure we were okay?"

Stiles looks at him like he's crazy. The hard eyes melt and he says barely above a whisper, "Scott, you're my brother. I would do anything to make sure you're okay. But," he looks behind him. "I'm not strong enough. I-I can't do—"

A bell resounds across the school grounds and Stiles flinches. "Probably should head to class," he says distantly, all of the vulnerability from moments before, vanished. "Skipped a class on my first day of school?" He laughs to himself. "I suppose I'll never learn, right?"

XXX  
"I want names!"

"Dad!"

"Don't 'Dad' me, Stiles. Tell me exactly who was in charge of your floor and I'm going to that facility and I am shutting it down with my bare hands!"

"Dad!"

"No! That is inexcusable! I knew checking you into Eichen House was a bad idea, but this is beyond what I could've imagined!"

"Dad!" Stiles shouts, gripping Mr. Stilinski's shoulder. He's taken aback at how strong the grip is, wondering if Stiles wanted to, he could keep him planted there. "I'm fine! I-I'm here and I'm fine."

"Kid," Mr. Stilinski mutters, grabbing the back of his son's head and pulling him into a fierce hug. "You are not fine. But I need you to understand something. That's okay. Do you hear me, son? It's okay. It's okay to be not fine. It's okay to say you need a little help or than you need time. It's okay. Because I'll be here. Scott's here. His mom. We'll be fine enough for you and you can be not fine and we'll pick up the slack. You deserve a break from being fine for everyone. Let me get this one, for once."

Stiles hesitates at the contact at first, and then grips the cloth of his father's uniform. How the Sheriff missed having Stiles here. Jus his presence brightens the house, even if he is a little broken. A little broken is better than absent. Maybe it's selfish, but it's true. "Deserve?" Stiles repeats. "I don't deserve anything Dad."

"That's the thing, kid," Mr. Stilinski says, squeezing tighter because it's been five months since he was able to hug his son and he needs to make up for lost time. "You do deserve it, you do deserve everything, and I will spend the rest of my life trying to convince you of that."

In hindsight, maybe going on a rant about Eichen House immediately after Scott called and informed him of what happened – in hopes to give the Sheriff all the information so he can properly help Stiles – wasn't the best idea. He knows he has to tread lightly with his son, but he doesn't know how to do so. Stilinski's aren't light. They're loud, vivacious, and demand to be seen.

There's a tapping at the door and the two pull apart. The Sheriff frowns, trying to remember if he told anyone they could come over. When he opens the door, he frowns at the woman in front of him. She has mousy hair and there are dark rings under her eyes like she hasn't slept in a while. "May I help you?" The Sheriff asks.

She takes a preparation breath. For what for, the Sheriff doesn't know. Then she asks, "Is this the residence of Stiles Stilinski?"

The Sheriff looks behind him and frowns at Stiles, who steps into sight, his arms crossed. "I'm Stiles." He says.

The woman's eyes brighten. "Oh my God, really? It's really you? You're alive? You actually are alive?" She cries. "I-I mean, Stiles?"

Stiles looks at the Sheriff, who is seriously considering slamming the door in the woman's face. But Stiles speaks before he can be rude. "Yes? Do I know you?"

"No, but," she turns around and waves excitedly to someone in a car parked behind the cop car. "I need your help. Or rather, Nathan needs your help."

"Who's Nathan?" Stiles asks, clearly frustrated.

But then the Sheriff sees it.

The kid can't be more than nine. He's lanky like Stiles, but still has chubby cheeks. He gets out of the car like someone's leading him with a rope; he stumbles and trudges up to the front door. But when he looks up, everything makes sense.

His eyes are so dark.

His mother may look a little sleep deprived, but this kid is wrecked. The Sheriff hasn't seen rings under someone's eyes ever since…

He looks at Stiles, who's grown pale. He looks like he wants to run, wants to sprint in the other direction, but is rooted to the spot. "Is another one dead, Mom?" The kid mumbles. "Because you could've just told me that in the car."

The woman smiles nervously. "H-He's usually not like this. It's been a rough year."

The kid snorts. "Rough year? Why can't you just say the words? This year has been shit."

The woman looks positively mortified, but Stiles snorts, earning him a startled look from the Sheriff. The woman gazes at Stiles with imploring eyes. "You're the only living one."

The only living one.

Stiles looks to the ground. "The only Nogitsune survivor."

The Sheriff doesn't need to look at the woman to get a confirmation. "Well, besides me," the kid snorts. "What a fun club this is."

The woman shuts her eyes. "Please,"

Opening the door a little wider, the Sheriff sighs. "Why don't you come in for some coffee?"

Needless to say, it's awkward. By the time the coffee is prepped and all four people are around the table, the Sheriff already wishes his coffee was of the Irish variety. He coughs slightly, running his hands down his legs. "So, what do you want with Stiles?"

"I need – we need," the woman – who introduced herself as Nancy – says quickly. "Help. I-I don't know what to do. I don't know where to go. Everyone else who lived through a Nogitsune possession is—"

"Dead, yeah, I get that." Stiles says shortly. "But what do you want with me?"

"I need you to help him."

The Sheriff looks over at Nathan, who's playing with the wood grain of the table. The kid should be getting his first crush. He should be getting excited about middle school. He shouldn't be dealing with any of this – it isn't fair. But then he gazes at his own son and his chest feels like it's collapsing.

Stiles is looking at the woman like she's telling him that he'll never be happy again. There's such pain etched on his face, the Sheriff wants to kick this woman and her son out. "How?" Stiles asks softly.

Nancy bites her lip. "He – he hasn't been the same. And I can't be there all the time to watch him, to make sure he doesn't try to, or maybe—"

The words aren't needed. To make sure he doesn't try to kill himself.

Nine years old.

The Sheriff curses the day a 'Nogitsune' ever came to be. Stiles sighs, "I can't help. I don't even know how I would."

"But you're alive!"

"It's not from lack of trying!" Stiles shouts. Both the woman and the Sheriff wince. "How is that a condition for helping someone? That I wasn't successful in my own attempt to kill myself? I can't help anyone! I can't!"

Stiles leaps from his chair and walks to the end of the counter, resting his hands on it. He leans until his forehead touches a cabinet. The Sheriff is tense, turning back to the woman. In a hushed voice, he says, "Maybe you should go and come back another time. It's just… it's not good right now and I don't think the added pressure of this would be very beneficial—"

"I'll do it."

Stiles' voice is small.

Nancy looks up from her coffee, her teary eyes wide and hopeful. "W-What?"

Stiles still doesn't turn around. The Sheriff can see his fists clenched and shaking, almost to the point where he wants to shout 'No!' and kick the two out of his house. But Stiles repeats his sentiment. "I'll do it. I don't know how, but I'll try."

"There's no point." Nathan says, his prepubescent voice breaking, but the Sheriff is sure it isn't due to puberty. "You're just going to fail. You shouldn't even try."

The Sheriff stands up so quickly, the table rattles. "Please don't take this the wrong way, but get out." He snaps. Stiles is shrinking, his back curling and his arms wrapping around himself. "I'm sorry, but please leave."

Nancy's tears fall. "B-But—"

"I said I'll do it," Stiles says. "Nathan can meet me tomorrow at the coffee place down the road. Show up, if you want. Or don't. I'll be there at eleven."

The Sheriff closes his eyes. This is not going to end well. It doesn't take his cop instincts to know that. As he's ushering them out the door – Nathan already in the car and buckled before Nancy leaves the house – he pulls her aside. "Now listen to me. My son is held together by tape. Tape. He's barely holding it together as it is. And if these little chat sessions do anything to make him regress, I'm ending them. I'm sorry your son was possessed, but Stiles is not an instructional manual. And he's doing the best he can."

"My nine-year-old tried to hang himself from the ceiling fan in our garage." Nancy says, her voice and eyes hard. "I watched him kill people. I watched him kill family. I know you're trying to protect your son, but I'm simply trying to protect mine. And right now, Stiles is my only option."

"He's a person, not a solution."

"Why can't someone be both?"

XXX

"You can do this, Stiles, you can do this." He breathes, speaking to himself over and over. "You can do this, you can do this. How can you help that kid if you don't do this?"

Stiles gets out of his Jeep, his body filled with nervous energy that he can't get rid of. Ever since the boy left, his chest felt heavy. He couldn't shake the feeling that something terrible is about to happen. He paces around his car, running his hands up and down his legs.

He thought he was better. He thought he was getting better. But he's back in Beacon Hills for what – a week? – and he already feels like he's underwater again. Stiles absently rubs his arms, peering at the black lines that he so strictly dictated to the tattoo artist. He reminds himself why he got them in the first place. "You're stronger than this, Stiles. You can do this. If you want to help people, you have to be okay. You need to be okay, Stiles. You need to."

One solution to fear is confronting it.

Which is why he stands outside of Eichen House at two in the morning.

"It's just a building, Stiles. It's just a building. It's not…" But as he reaches out to the handle of the gate, a sharp pain hits his chest like the simple memory of it is attacking him. His breathing quickens and he finds himself stumbling backward. He can't control anything. He feels the panic attack coming on, but there's no one here to talk him down.

Darkness starts circling his eyes as each breath is harder to collect. Without thinking, he pulls out his phone and dials a number. He doesn't expect anyone to answer, so it's no surprise when it goes to voicemail.

"Hello! You've reached the voicemail of Lydia Martin. If you are calling in regards to – Stiles stop! Stop it! I'm being professional, something you clearly need to learn about. Regards is normal person speak! You are simply incorrigible! Gah – leave a message!"

His breathing slows, but it's not enough. He presses 'redial,' pressing the phone to his ear. "Hello! You've reached the voicemail of Lydia Martin…"

He has to listen to it five times before he can clamber back in his car.

Once his panic subsides, he slams the car in reverse and peels out. He can't believe she kept that message. He always assumed she rerecorded it when he left the room. But it was there, like a small piece of the past when it was good.

Stiles peers in his rear view mirror, wiping the sweat from his forehead. How in the hell was he going to help this kid when he couldn't even keep himself together long enough to stand next to a building? It's enough to have him sprinting toward Canada again, but then he remembers Scott's pleas.

Please don't leave.

Out of all things to ask, this might be the one that breaks him.

"Keep it together, Stiles," he whispers to himself. "You have to keep it together. Keep it together."

XXX

By the time Stiles gets home, his hands are cold. It's another side-effect. Stiles wonders if he's just a compilation of side-effects now. Like, he's no longer a person. He's simply of list of things that are wrong. Everything about him should be different, but it's not. It's so frustrating to know that you're wrong, but not have the knowledge of how to become right.

"Where the hell were you?"

Stiles freezes in the hallways of his house, completely taken aback by the sudden aggression directed toward him. He puts his hands up in a defensive position, his instincts driving him like some brutal force. He sees his father, but doesn't see his father. He sees… them. Except logically, he knows his dad isn't one of them. He doesn't have a whip in his hands and he isn't screaming things that make him want to rip off his ears.

But his body doesn't know that.

Stiles unclenches and drops his hands; his father is looking at him like he's about to cry. "Sorry," Stiles mutters distantly, trying to act as if he didn't think he father was about to hit him. Because he wouldn't. Theoretically, Stiles was safe. He tells himself that over and over, even though the words don't stick. I'm safe, I'm safe, I'm safe, I'm safe… Maybe one of these days he'll actually believe it, instead of feeling like a cornered animal at all times. The constant rush of adrenaline is exhausting. 

"Sorry," he shakes his head. "Sorry, sorry, sorry."

He wants to say it over and over again. Sorry, sorry, sorry. How many times can he say it until it makes everything go away? He'd say it until his dying breath if it meant the permanent knot that was in his chest would unravel. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

It isn't until his father pulls him into a tight hug does he realize he's been saying it out loud.  
"It's alright Stiles, it's alright." His father repeats in an endless fashion, just as Stiles has been muttering his apologies. "You just can't do that. You can't just leave. I'm sorry kid, but that's how it's got to be. I have to know where you are at all times. That's the rule."

Stiles buries his face into his father's shoulders, the words warming him in a way that he doesn't remember. It's a foreign feeling, but it's good and nice and lifts the darkness, even if for a moment. "I'm just used to being on my own." He mumbles into his father's t-shirt.

The Sheriff pulls away, grasping Stiles' shoulders. He lifts Stiles chin so he can look him in the eyes and states carefully, "You are not on your own. You never should've been and you never will be again. But you can't just leave in the middle of the night, and you especially can't just leave in the middle of the night and not tell me where you went! I thought – I mean, I thought you'd—"

"Left?" Stiles finishes. He can't help the fact that his voice is yearning. He can't help the fact that he wishes it was true. He felt better if he was constantly moving, like the nightmares would always be just a little further away if his feet kept in motion. Once he was still, everything could catch him.  
And catch him, they did.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to leave again," Stiles mutters. "Everyone keeps thinking I will, but I can't."

"Can't?"

Stiles groans. "Ever read Flowers for Algernon?" The look the Sheriff gives Stiles shows plainly that he has not. Stiles laughs. "Once you experience something, you can't quite go back to the way it was because you'll always remember the way it used to be. That's Beacon Hills for me, Dad. I'm surrounded by all these things that make me think about what life used to be like and how good it was and all it does is remind me how shitty everything is now and I hate it."

Stiles is surprised at his sudden shout and he backs up from his father. "I-I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have yelled."

The Sheriff eyes him. "No. Go on, Stiles."

Stiles looks at him curiously, the words that have been building up inside of him for months finally at the surface, desperately trying to escape. "I don't want to yell at you," he finishes instead with a small voice. "I don't want to yell at anyone. I just want to be better."

"But you're not."

"But I'm not."

The two Stilinskis groan in unison, giving each other sheepish grins after the fact. They walk into the kitchen, the Sheriff puttering around until Stiles finally realizes what he's doing. Putting a pot on the stove, he rummages through the fridge until he gets out a gallon of milk. Stiles smiles to himself when he notices that in a thin Sharpie is the words 'Stiles' Milk'. There's another thing. Another thing that reminds him of the way things used to be.

Stiles has always been a milk person. He could drink a couple gallons in a week and used to crave it, particularly when getting used to his medication when he was younger. So when people came over, his dad and him had a deal. There would be a gallon of milk in the fridge for everyone else – and then there'd be Stiles' milk. No one was allowed to touch that milk because he knew exactly how much was needed, and of course when he needed more.

Stiles hadn't labeled his milk in a while.

But there it was, the small little label of a small little compromise that he and his father made when he was younger. As the Sheriff heats up the milk on the stove, Stiles can't help but smiling to himself. His father used to do this a lot after his drinking subsided when his mother died. Heating up milk on the stove may not have been able to bring his Mom back, but it was something.

That all they could really do at the time – something.

And now here they are again.

When the two mugs are placed on the table, Stiles takes it into his hands. "I'm sorry," he says sincerely. "It slipped my mind. I've spent the past four months being on my own and it's hard to get used to people wanting to know where I am at all times."

"Four months?" The Sheriff inquires. "So you stayed in the clinic for only a month?"

Stiles internally curses. He does not want to talk about the clinic – especially with his dad because he knows he'd just blame himself for sending him there. That isn't something he'd ever put on his father. No, he's taking what happened during that month to grave, if he has to. "Yes." He states, hoping his tone indicates this conversation isn't up for discussion.

His father seems to take the blatant hint, but clearly isn't pleased. "Listen kid, we need to figure something out. We need to come up with some sort of solution so that we can do this together. Make all of this work. Because I'm going to be totally honest with you. I am terrified. I am terrified that something's going to happen and it's going to push you over the edge again. I don't know what to do, Stiles. I just don't know what to do."

That's the thing, isn't it, though? He didn't know what to do either. But he'd try simply because his father needed him to. "I don't know either, Dad."

"Do we need to move?"

Stiles' head whips up. "Huh?"

"Do we need to move out of Beacon Hills? Because I was looking into some places a couple county's away and there are some deputy positions open. Nothing looks too… supernatural there. I think—"

"You'd do that?" Stiles asks. "You'd move away from Beacon Hills, from your job and the McCalls… for me?"

The Sheriff looks at Stiles as though he swore at him. "Are you kidding? I move to a different country if it meant that you'd be okay."

Shit.

That's when Stiles knew. That's when Stiles knew he could never leave Beacon Hills. He had to be here. Because of Scott, because of his dad. Because of people who would be willing to uproot their lives to make sure he was okay. They had to be in Beacon Hills because it needs to be protected. And Stiles had to be there because they needed him.

Stiles looks at his hands. They're callused and scarred from too many adventure to recount, but he can still see the faint tinge of blood on them from the Nogitsune. Everything in the world would now be tinted just a little red, just like everything would be a little bit darker. One thing he knows for certain is things will never be the way they used to. And he's trying to figure out if he's okay with that.

Well, he has to be, he supposes.

"No, Dad, we can't move." Stiles sighs. "Beacon Hills needs you."

"I don't care about what Beacon Hills needs. What about what you need?"

Stiles merely shrugs.

His needs disappeared long ago when his past had a death toll.

His father is about to open his mouth to argue, so Stiles quickly chooses to change the subject. "I don't know how to help that kid, Dad. What should I do?"

The Sheriff frowns, probably knowing exactly what Stiles did, but he humors him. "Hell if I know, kid. He reminds me of you when you were…" The Sheriff can't finish.

"Bad." Stiles chooses to do it for him because he needs his Dad to know that he's no longer that bad. He's somewhat better. He needs to be better.

"Well," the Sheriff muses. "What did you want people to say to you?"

Stiles doesn't want to think that far back. He's afraid if he does, the thoughts will spread in his head again. And he can't get bad again. He can't do that to his father. "I-I don't know." Stiles says. "I don't think I wanted anyone to say anything to me. I just wanted them to be there – so I'd be less cold and alone. And if they said anything, I didn't want stupid 'it'll get better' sentiments because as far as I saw it, it wasn't going to get better. I was angry and scared and I wanted people to be angry and scared with me. I wanted to scream and yell and hit things and make bad decisions, but I couldn't because everyone was sad and mourning over something I did and I don't think I've ever felt so alone in my life."

The Sheriff doesn't say anything for a few moments. When he does finally move, he sucks in a breath. "Why didn't you say that?"

"I didn't want to have to," Stiles says. "It's stupid looking back at it now, but I wanted someone to notice and force me. Put up the effort to maybe… prove that I was worth a little effort? I dunno. It sounds stupid saying it out loud."

"Out of all the stupid things I've heard you say, son," the Sheriff snorts. "That may be one of the least-stupid things I've ever heard."

Stiles can't help the stupid grin on his face. "I'm not leaving you, Pops. Not again. You don't need to worry about me."

That makes the Sheriff laugh. "I will always worry about you, kid. Even if the supernatural didn't exist, I would always worry. From the moment you were born, I worried. Because that's what Dad's do. It's their job."

Stiles finally takes a sip of his milk, the warmth spreading to his toes in a way he can't remember and it's absolutely lovely. "I think you got the raw end of the deal," Stiles says with a smirk. "Out of all the kids in the world, you're stuck with this."

"That's where you and I differ, kid. I think I lucked out."

XXX

Stiles looks at his phone. It's a few minutes past eleven and Nathan still wasn't there. He didn't blame him – when he was like Nathan, the last thing he'd want to do is talk to a stranger about how life was worth living. He already bought himself a coffee because his lunch period in school was only an hour and he practically had to tie Scott down in order to convince him not to come with him.

Like he needed protection from a nine-year-old.

After ten minutes pass and Stiles is about to give up, the door to the café opens and Nathan and Nancy peddle in. Nancy looks like she's about to cry – she probably had been begging Nathan to enter for quite some time now – and Stiles wistfully wonders if he made his father feel like that. Probably. Stiles returns his attention to his coffee.

"Sorry we're late, we got held up," Nancy says breathlessly, pulling Nathan along. "I'll just go get us some drinks and you two can chat or whatever you like."

Stiles smirks because it looks like the last thing Nathan wants to do is be here and, combining with his deathly rings under his eyes, he genuinely looks as though he wants to murder Stiles. Maybe he should've brought his hunting knife with him. Too late now.

Nathan takes a seat from the booth across from him and glares at the table. Stiles knows he shouldn't be amused by it, but he can't help but laugh. Out loud. "Dude," he says through huffs. "You look like an angry Jigglypuff."

Nathan whips his head up. "I'm glad you think this is funny."

Stiles raises his eyebrows. "Not many things make me laugh these days. So if I think you're being an angsty asshole and laugh about it, that's my right."

"I'm nine. You can't say that word around me."

"That's real rich," Stiles snorts. "You said 'shit' in the middle of my kitchen after knowing me for less than five minutes. I think your virginal ears are fine."

Nathan glowers at the table again. His mom brings him over a hot chocolate and then disappears from sight, even though Stiles knows she can't be far away. "Funny, I thought you would've gotten black coffee," Stiles muses. "Like your soul."

Nathan scowls. "Is that why you have it?"

Stiles looks at his coffee cup and can't help but feel like his stomach fell out of his body, but he tries not to show it. "Probably," he says with a shrug. "So, what do you want to talk about?"

"I thought you were supposed to make life worth living again or whatever." Nathan grumbles.

Now that really makes Stiles laugh. "Dude, I don't even know if life is worth living anymore. From where I'm standing, I could go either way at this point."

That catches Nathan's attention. He looks up at Stiles and finally Stiles sees the youth in his eyes. Not the cynicism that shouldn't be present in someone so young, or the strain of a dark past, but a terrified nine-year-old with no answers. Stiles tries not to change his expression because he knows it'll only makes everything so much worse, so he settles for taking a sip of his coffee.

"Do you want to die?" Nathan finally asks.

Stiles can feel his hands trembling, so he places them in his lap so it's not noticeable. This was such a bad idea. Stiles can feel it. He can feel the internal crumbling happening and it takes all his willpower to keep his face straight. "Sometimes," Stiles answers honestly. "It's better than it used to be, I suppose."

"Did you try to kill yourself?"

Stiles wrings his hands under the table. "Yes. Did you?"

"Yes."

Stiles, when he's positive his hands are under control, takes another sip of coffee. "Well then. We have something in common."

But it's not funny or a joke. Simply a statement.

"Because an evil spirit possessing us isn't enough?"

Stiles smiles humorlessly. "The things we have in common suck."

"Yeah."

Stiles can't talk about this anymore. He feels himself unraveling at the seams and the darkness starting to cloud his thoughts again. He can see the pills in his hand when he was in the bathroom, all alone. He can hear the Nogitsune's voice in his head as he thought about unscrewing the cap of the bottle. "I like comic books," Stiles decides to go with. "Batman's my favorite."

Nathan snorts. "Batman? He literally can't do anything. His superpower is that he's loaded. Superman's way better."

"Superman?" Stiles says incredulously. "He literally is the most boring superhero on the face of the earth. At least Batman actually has to work for his super-ness. He doesn't magically ricochet bullets from his chest."

"I don't think I can trust your opinion."

"I know I can't trust yours."

Nathan smiles, but it's fleeting and scared, as if he's afraid to be happy. "What if it never gets better? What if it's just hell for the rest of our lives?"

Stiles freezes. The words are distant, but he hears his own voice asking the same question. Before everything. "Someone told me something once. Her decisions leave something to be desired, but I think it's a nice sentiment. When you're going through hell, keep going."

Nathan sighs. "Why?"

Stiles can't help but laugh. Really laugh. "Hell if I know," he says with a smile. "But somehow I'm stupid enough to listen."

XXX

They didn't talk about much for the rest of the meeting, but Stiles is grateful. Sometimes he thinks that Nathan wants to talk about what happened, but the two of them are simply too fragile to really put anything into words. So instead they talk about comics and baseball. When it's time to go, Nathan begrudgingly agrees to see Stiles again. Except this time, Stiles decides to take a chance.

"We can meet at the lacrosse field after the tryouts for the team," Stiles offers. "Do you have a stick?"

Nathan scoffs. "Why in the hell would I want to play lacrosse?"

"Why in the hell are you so much a little shit and only nine years old?" Stiles snaps back.

Nancy opens her mouth to probably yell at Stiles, but is taken aback when Nathan laughs. Laughs. 

Stiles returns the sentiment. "It's good to do things with your hands, dumbass." Stiles continues. "Things that aren't…"

"Bad." Nathan finishes. There's that youthful look again. But Nathan gets it. Stiles can tell that he does. "Fine. But lacrosse is stupid."

"So is Superman." 

Nathan's eyes bulge. "You are like, literally the worst human being on the planet!"

Stiles secretly agrees, but he keeps his plastered grin on. "Tie for first?" Stiles puts his hand out for a fist bump.

Nathan takes it and his mother looks horrified.

He supposes it could've gone worse.

As Stiles makes his way back to the school, he can't stop rubbing his hands together. He's so very cold. It feels like his skin is itching to explode, but there's nothing he can do about it. Everything in Beacon Hills reminds him of the Nogitsune and now he has to pretend that he's totally fine so a child doesn't off himself and leave his mother all alone?

He considers skipping the rest of the day and simply going for a run, but he knows that if he did so, his father and Scott would probably have the entire Beacon Hills police department looking for him. So instead he walks onto the school grounds, his chest a little heavier than when he left the first time.

The hallway's empty. He's a little late for his fourth period, so he takes his time, knowing he'll be reprimanded regardless. But he decides to cut through the gym simply to save time, even though he wants to wander the halls a little longer.

"Aw, wee lamb." A voice says seductively.

And Stiles finds himself picked up and thrown against the bleachers.

A little dazed, Stiles instinctively reaches behind him, but his hands return empty. Right, school. No guns allowed in school. He sees something shoot toward his face and he places his thumbs at the nape of his neck, giving him the little extra room before someone wraps their hands around his throat. Using that little gap as leverage, he swings one of his elbows and feels it hit something hard, a pain exploding in his arm. "Son of a bitch!" He exclaims, leaping to his feet.

"Looks like last time wasn't a fluke," the person purrs. "Looks like the sidekick finally learned a thing or two about fighting."

Kate Argent stands before him, her eyes glowing a little, but for the most part, she's not shifted. 

"What do you want?" Stiles shouts, backing up slightly. He feels naked without the weapons he spent the past four months training with, his hands quaking at his sides. "Because you've gotta have a plan or be completely idiotic to come to the high school where you know there are a handful of werewolves who want to rip your throat out!"

She only smiles at his outburst. "Always the loud mouth. Glad to see that some things haven't changed."

"And you're still a psychotic bitch." Stiles seethes. "Now tell me – what do you want?"

"Isn't it obvious, my dear?" Kate says sweetly. "Revenge. You think a pack of mutts can put me down? You think that you can ever win? I am an Argent – you can't defeat me!"

Stiles freezes. His bones turn to ice as he flashes back. The words still him in a way that he can't explain, until his fear doubles upon itself. Kate takes this moment to advance on him, this time able to wrap her hands around his throat without any problem. "Now this is where you come in, little lamb," she whispers in his ear, her mouth practically touching his cheek. "You're going to be a message. A message to your pack. That last time was a fluke. That I will take you all out. One. By. One."

Any struggling that Stiles was attempting vanished in that second. Suddenly, he's back. He's back in the Nogitsune's grasp and there's nothing he can do. There's nothing he can do to stop the fear. There's nothing he can do to make himself get better. There's nothing he can do when Kate Argent throws him across the gymnasium.

There's nothing he can do when the world turns black.

XXX

There's a rattling on the door, startling Stiles. "Come on, kid!" Someone shouts from the other side. He pounds his fist against the metal door a few more times, probably because Stiles spent the last two nights in isolation and they tend to get grumpy with trouble-makers. Every part of Stiles' body aches from sleeping in the same position for such a long time, but it hurt less than rolling on his back.

Stiles sits up, the familiar pain slicing across his back and he winces, twisting to reach the source. The lashes from two days ago are still raw, even though he's been by himself in a room for the remaining time. "So nice to hear from you again," Stiles mumbles simply because it makes him feel better, knowing that the man can't hear it at all. 

He rises to his feet only because he knows from experience if he doesn't do so, they will use force to get him up. After experiencing that once, even Stiles isn't stupid enough to encourage that wrath again. The door opens and Stiles winces at the light, a few uniformed men standing at the doorway. "Stilinski, this way."

Stiles scowls at them for a lack of anything better to do, but it earns him a quick cuff to the head. Usually it wouldn't do much, but after spending two days in isolation, it makes his world spin. "Overreaction, aisle one." Stiles grumbles, moving out of swinging range.

"Maybe that will make you think twice before being insubordinate again," one of the men snaps.  
"You said that last time," Stiles comments, rubbing his sleepy eyes. "And the time before. And the time before that. And yet here we are again. I think we're just going to have to break up. It's not me, it's definitely you. You are all psychotic."

That was the magic word. In a movement far too swift for Stiles to ever block, the man swipes a fistful of his shirt and throws him against the wall. Stiles can't help it – he cries out in pain as his injured back slams against the wall, but the man is there with his forearm under his neck, pressure increasing as time passed. For a moment, Stiles genuinely wonders if this man is going to asphyxiate him.

"What got you into this mess, kid?" The man spat, his eyes full of rage. "Because it sure as hell wasn't high school. It was the supernatural. And you're standing here telling me that you want to defend it? Maybe it wasn't the Nogitsune possession. Maybe you're really just fucked in the head."

"Screw you!" Stiles shouts, resisting against the hold, but he knows it's futile. "Not all supernatural creatures are bad and you guys are a bunch of psychotic lemmings trying to turn kids into killers!"

"It's not murder if the being isn't human." The man states menacingly. "Listen, kid. We could just eliminate you and all your problems would go away. We could tell your dad you were far too depressed and we did everything we could to help you. But the supernatural hold on you was too strong. What do you think a mourning father would do in that situation? Would he be all about supporting the monsters that killed his kid? Oh no, he would want vengeance. And here you stand, defending beasts and witches. 

"We will break you, kid." The man says calmly and Stiles is finding it hard to breathe. "We will break you and you will want nothing more than to murder those dogs you think are your friends. If they didn't exist, do you think your life would be the way it is?"

Stiles doesn't respond because he doesn't know how.

"No, it wouldn't be, wouldn't it?" The man smirks. "No werewolves, no banshees, no Nogitsunes. When we're done with you, all you'll want to do is march back to Beacon Hills and shoot that bitch of a dog you call a best friend—"

"Fuck you!" Stiles shouts, bringing his leg up and kneeing him in the crotch. The man crumples and Stiles contemplates sprinting down the hall, but he genuinely doesn't know where he'd go. He was trapped, just like he had been for the past three weeks, two days, and seven hours with these anti-supernatural monsters.

Before he can make a decision, several sets of arms grab him and throw him against the wall. He cries out in pain and the man is back on his feet, his face red and his breath labored. "Throw him back in the pit. And give him ten lashes for all the trouble he's caused us. I have a promise, kid. I will break you and it will not be difficult. You came to us almost entirely broken. We just have to shove you the rest of the way."

Stiles struggles, his entire body trembling with the thought of what was to become of him the rest of the evening. "I will never do what you freaks do! Never!"

The man smiles. "Never say never, Stiles. There are people who believe there are no such things as werewolves."

"NO!" Stiles screams.

He tries to sit up, but he's restrained. He pulls against the restraints and surprisingly they come free. He leaps to his feet, but someone puts their hand out. "Woah there, man. Calm down, it's just—"

"No!" He shouts again. Stiles grabs the person's hands and twists them, causing the person to yelp. In a swift move, he shoves them backwards until they slam against the wall. "I told you – I will never do what you want, you psychotic bastard!"

"Stiles!"

He hears his dad's voice and it's like something inside him snaps. Stiles is brought back to the present, no longer trapped in that hell hole of a clinic. The person he has a hold of slowly comes back into focus and he sees his best friend's eyes full of worry and… pain? Stiles looks down at the twisted grip he has on Scott's wrist. "Oh shit!" He cries, letting go and stumbling backward.

As he does so, a wave of pain ripples through his body, drifting from his head to his toes and he stumbles. Someone's behind him and catches him under his arm pits. Everyone's still in the room.

His father grunts at Stiles' weight, but somehow manages to drag him back over to the hospital bed. 

"Woah, what's going on?" Stiles asks, realizing the restraints weren't actually restraints, but IV needles and heart monitors. It was Scott.

He was safe.

Well, safe…er.

His entire body aches. "Stiles, you're in the hospital," his father says slowly when his son is back in the bed. Stiles eyes all the machines and needles wearily and the Sheriff can already tell he's itching to leave.

"Funnily enough, I put that one together myself." Stiles says sheepishly, sending a guilty look at Scott. "Man, I-I'm so sorry. I don't know what came over me."

"It's like your true animal instincts kicked it. You should've taken my offer up – you would've made a wonderful specimen of a werewolf."

Stiles' eyes widen. "Who invited the psychopath?"

Peter Hale cocks his head. "I'm actually hurt at your response to my presence. After everything we've been through?"

Stiles stares. "You mean the time you tried to kill us all and we lit you on fire? Good times."

Peter shrugs. "To each their own. But I thought the reason I was here would be painfully obvious."  
"Emphasis on painful. I'm assuming it has nothing to do with my well-being."

"Of course not," Peter smirks. "I hear Kate Argent is back. That is a new development I am very interested in. Speaking of Kate Argent, looks like she used you as her personal chew toy."

It all came painfully swarming back to him. The gym, the tossing around. "Oh god," Stiles groans, leaning back into the hospital pillows. "That's not embarrassing at all."

"Stiles, what happened?" Scott asks once he composed himself. He stretches his arm, twisting his wrist around a few times. "And holy crap, I need to get used to the new you. It's so weird that you can get the jump on me now."

He knows that it's supposed to be funny, but he looks at his hands in disgust. The worst part, it was entirely instinct. He continues to look at the ceiling, trying to keep the frustration of himself as minimally visible as possible. "Kate Argent is the worst," Stiles shrugs, unsure of what else to say. 

Well, it's not untrue.

I will take you all out. One. By. One.

Stiles shakes his head, trying to get the words out of his head, though unsuccessfully. He knows that everyone can tell what's going on, but he chooses to ignore it. He's always been a big fan of ignoring his problems, hoping they'll go away.

"What did she want?" Derek says, making Stiles jump.

"Dude! I really hoped that you evolved past the creepy, 'every step you take, I'll be watching you' phase." Stiles snaps. "What do you think she wants?

"Revenge."

XXX

Turns out, getting thrown against the school bleachers and breaking them means that you are allotted two days off. As annoyed as Scott was, Stiles convinced the doctors that he wasn't that bad and they released him the same day, even though Scott and the Sheriff shared a look that clearly stated that his 'I'm fine' lies were fooling them. Scott was pretty sure the only reason Stiles missed two days of school was because of the Sheriff.

When he does return, he looks worse. He's walking a little slower, but at least he's now wearing clothes that fit. Scott closes his locker, sighing. There are rings under Stiles' eyes a little darker than the last time he saw him. Something happened that he's not saying. Even though Scott couldn't detect him lying – doesn't mean that he wasn't withholding some information.

And then there was the moment he woke up. The frantic movements, the spastic yelling, and the proclamation. Moments before he woke up, he was moaning in pain, only a few words intelligible through his murmuring. "I won't" and "psychos" were the most clear.

But, as soon as Stiles catches his eye, he smiles. It's small, but genuine, if not incredibly tired. Scott carefully claps a hand on his back. "Hey there. You look like crap."

"Wow, you really know how to boost a guy's confidence," Stiles laughs. "True Alpha at work – you should go into motivational speaking."

"Part of my job description." Scott smirks. "You doin' okay?"

Stiles shrugs in that infuriating way. "I didn't really like the shape of my ribcage anyway. It conformed too much to the ideal standard of beauty. I like my new concave ribcage – it makes me feel like an individual."

"Stiles," Scott says, torn between his desire to have his friend continue joking around like he used to, but also getting some answers out of him. "Hey man, I think we really need to talk."

Stiles stops, his eyes wide and falsely innocent. "About what?"

"I think we need to chat and catch up. I mean, a lot has happened and… god, I'm so bad at this whole talking thing. I need to make sure that you're okay. Because I don't think you are."

Stiles doesn't move. He doesn't run away. Scott can feel the waves of emotions rolling off of him, but his face doesn't give anything away. Stiles takes a few moments before answering. "You should come over tonight. We can play Xbox and eat crap and pretend to be actual teenage boys for once." He shrugs. "Like we used to."

"Yeah," Scott asks, a little more eagerly than he wished to reveal. "You up for that?"

"Kicking your ass in Halo probably won't further damage my torso, if that's what you're thinking." Stiles says, rolling his eyes. "Listen, I'm trying. I really am." Stiles says softly, avoiding Scott's gaze. "I've never been good at being normal, you know that."

"So stop trying to be normal." Scott says simply. "You obviously suck at it."

"Again, the True Alpha motivation. I suddenly feel competent for the first time in my life."

"Not surprised it took so long," Isaac drawls as he approaches. "You might want to even reevaluate."

"I've always thought the letters F and U should be closer together in the alphabet, what do you think Scarfy?" Stiles rolls his eyes and the three boys make their way down the hall. Isaac says something in return, but it's a pathetic excuse for a retort. Scott has a feeling that he's secretly please Stiles is back and isn't sure how to act around him.

The three make their way into 'music appreciation class,' or as Scott likes to think of it – an easy A. He can tell Stiles actually enjoys it because he's always been a bit pretentious when it comes to music and this class allows him to be so. But when they entered the room, Scott's surprised to see Coach at the front of the classroom, smirking at their arrival.

"Yes, yes, I know what you all are wondering," Coach says when they all filter into the classroom. "You're wondering 'Mrs. Hannigan – you suddenly became so attractive and fit, how did you do it?' Now, I know that you little miscreant bastards probably think that since your music teacher decided that getting laryngitis would be fun, not to mention incredibly ironic, you wouldn't have to do anything or you'd get to harass a substitute. Well, jokes on you because we don't have money in the school budget for subs, so instead of taking my lunch hour, I get to deal with you little punks until she's back. So I already hate you. Where should we begin?"

Stiles snorts and sends Scott a knowing look. It's something he's missed for ages, and so his return smile is so enthusiastic, it draws attention from Coach.

"Don't think I see that exchange, Stilinski and McCall. Actually, I have a fun idea," Coach says, sitting down at the desk. "Since you so adamantly insisted that you spent the past five months play the piano, why don't you give us a little concert?"

Stiles' smile vanishes. "Um, I think I'm good."

"Up here, front and center Stilinski."

"What if I promised never to be happy in high school again?"

Coach muses over that for a moment. "While it would make me feel better, not enough. Hustle up!"

Stiles' eyes grow hard as he stares at the piano at the front of the classroom. Scott grows a little uneasy, watching as his friend slow approaches the instrument. Stiles sits down at the piano, staring at it as though it was insulting him. His hands hover above the keys and Scott can detect a small quiver in his fingers. He brings his hands down and plays a solitary note, closing his eyes and flinching when the noise resounds in the room.

"Just as I suspected, Stilinski. Why you would lie to get out of lacrosse tryouts is beyond me—"

But as Coach is about to enter his tirade, Stiles plays another note. And another. And a hauntingly melancholy chord that echoes in Scott's chest, rattling his bones and chilling his heart.

The song continues, beautiful and horrible at the same time. It bleeds onto the floor, seeping into the souls of everyone in the room. Scott isn't sure if people are even breathing.

When he finishes, the last note echoes like the wail of foreboding, playing long after the last sound was heard. It's enough to make Coach silent and staring, which is a trick in itself.

But Scott's attention is solely focus on Stiles. He's sitting rigid at the piano, staring at his hands. They're shaking even harder now and he's just staring at them. Why is he just staring at them?  
"Stiles?"

Scott's broken out of his stupor when Lydia stands up, her voice small, but firm. "Stiles, are you okay?"

That snaps him out of whatever reverie he was in and his head whips up and he looks at the class as if he's just now realizing he's surrounded by people. His gaze falls on Coach and then back to his hands and Scott gets it.

Blood.

He's seeing blood.

Without a word, Stiles leaps from his chair and bolts from the room.

Scott moves to follow suit, but is almost knocked over by a 5'3", strawberry blond genius who's already out the door. Isaac grabs his shoulder. "Let her have this one," Isaac says. "She's been wanting to talk with him anyway."

For some reason, Scott's persuaded.

XXX

She finds him in his Jeep.

His fingers drum against the wheel and she can't help but be a little transfixed by their movement. She enters the Jeep without a word and he doesn't kick her out, so she takes that as a good sign. She doesn't say anything, but just watches him. Watches as hints of the old Stiles comes bursting through and he shakes his head while running his fingers through his hair.

"I read something somewhere that demons aren't musically inclined." He bursts out and it's so not what Lydia thought he'd say that she genuinely doesn't have a response. "I know that sounds like the beginning of a joke, but it's true. Apparently music is a human thing. Perks of humanity and all that. But demons can't figure out timing and rhythm. They actually used to make people play instruments to see if they were possessed. Some people just sucked, which sucked for them because they died unnecessarily.

"But I wasn't lying to Coach when I told him I spent a lot of time playing the piano. I used to do it all the time, desperately trying to convince myself that the Nogitsune was gone. But I look at my hands and all I see is blood. All the people who died because of me. And no matter how much good I do, it won't erase that fact."

Lydia remains silent. A part of her desperately wants to shout and shake the teenager, but she's afraid to stop the flow of words that have been so rare these days. Instead, she simply reaches across the arm rests and grabs his hands, intertwining their fingers. He's startled, but only for a moment, and then squeezes back.

"It hurts to play, though. There's an emptiness inside of me that I can't quite explain or even understand how to deal with. But when I play, it makes every part of that emptiness hurt. It rattles things and I don't understand."

"You're trying to piece yourself together." Lydia says softly. "Broken things don't have to remain broken."

Stiles turns to look at her, his eyes melting with sorrow. "You think I'm broken?"

Lydia's lower lip trembles. "Yes,"

Stiles turns away, looking out the window of his Jeep.

"I think that because you're carrying around guilt you shouldn't. You say you see all this blood on your hands and that you're empty inside. You refuse to be around people – around me." Lydia presses on, refusing to let go of his hand, even when he pulls it away. "And I know that telling you it's not your fault is futile because you're going to believe what you want. But you know what Stiles? You may be broken, but you're still working. You feel all that when you hear music because you're human and you have a soul, and you're healing. The fact that you can feel it means that something right is happening.

"I'm not worried about you," Lydia says matter-of-factly. "I know you'll be fine. But it's okay to be not fine for a while. It's not bad."

Stiles snorts. "My dad said something like that the other day."

"Because it's true. And no one understands how frustrating and hard it is like I do." Lydia says, her words soft. "I hid behind make-up, you hide behind jokes. Both great disguises, but not entirely helpful."

Stiles huffs, "You're amazing, you know that, right?"

"I do. It's pretty much proven at this point." Lydia says with a smirk. "So what do you want to do? Go back into school?"

Stiles makes a face. "Not really. People just stare at me there."

"Stiles. You're covered into tattoos, I'm fairly certain you gained thirty pounds of solid muscle, and you spent a week wearing obscenely tight shirts. Of course people are gonna stare at you."

Stiles smiles sheepishly to himself. "I never planned on coming back here, to be honest. I didn't really think the tattoos through. I didn't notice the muscle thing."

"If I haven't said it before, Stilinski, you are a moron."

He shrugs. "Some things don't change. But I don't want to go back inside. To be honest, I just want to drive somewhere. Anywhere. Anywhere that's not here."

"Then drive."

And so he does. Lydia keeps her hand in Stiles and can't help but think as he spastically drums against the wheel of his Jeep that he's right: some things don't change. But then she looks at their hands.  
Then again, some things do.

XXX

"So, you couldn't think of any better activity since you went and got yourself beat up?"

Nathan gripes for the millionth time as Stiles leads him through the mall. Stiles tries not to be annoyed, but it's not working.

"Your attitude sucks kid. I'm sorry that some psychotic were-mutant thing thought it'd be fun to ram me against bleachers. And you were super against lacrosse anyways. And I need new clothes. I'm tired of wearing my dad's clothes or my skin-tight ones and looking like a douche."

Nathan snorts. "You'll need more than a new outfit to not look like a douche."

"Wow, walked right into that one," Stiles murmurs, rolling his eyes. "Besides. You smell like day-old fries and self-pity. It's probably good you're outside and around people."

"But we're not outside," Nathan wines. "We're inside a mall."

"How astute of you!"

"You're the worst."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "You always say such nice things to me. Save some flattery for the rest of the class."

Once Stiles buys Nathan a smoothie, he shuts up for a while, though. Stiles actually is enjoying himself, finding clothes that actually fit, although it's a struggle to find shirts that'll cover his tattoos.

"What's with tattoos, anyways?" Nathan asks, chewing on his straw.

Stiles is surprised, pulling a shirt over his head.

Nathan makes a face. "You look like Fratboy #3 in a B-rated movie."

"No to the shirt it is, then."

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

Stiles frowns. "You're the first person who's really asked me about my tattoos. It's usually just a jumbled mess of things that people ask and I don't really have to answer."

"So you're not gonna tell me?"

"I didn't say that," Stiles says, pulling on another shirt. Nathan merely shrugs, which seems to be the highest praise he'll get and he puts it in his 'buy' pile. "It's actually something stupid I researched. Apparently it's supposed to keep your body safe."

Nathan perks up. "So that nothing can take it over?"

Stiles nods. "Yeah, I tracked down a guy who could do it. I actually asked them to sedate me because I'm terrified of needles – which is why everyone's so shocked that I have them. I'm more terrified of being possessed again, though."

"Who did you—"

"You are so not getting tattoos all over your body. You're like three years old."

"Nine!" Nathan shouts, indignant.

"Same difference. You're still growing and you'll look weird as shit. I won't be the only douche."  
Nathan frowns, but not in the angsty, I-was-possessed-now-fuck-everything way he usually does. "I killed my dad."

Stiles freezes, caught mid-shirt, pulling until he nearly gets his head stuck in his sleeve. He frantically pulls his head out, discarding the clothing and sitting next to Nathan. "What?"

 

"I killed my dad," Nathan repeats softly. "My mom watched. I know she's afraid of me. Even now. I can tell."

Stiles doesn't know what to say. What can he? It would be hypocritical to say it wasn't his fault when Allison's face haunts his dreams every night.

"I can't sleep because I watch him die every time I shut my eyes." Nathan says, tears filling his eyes. "I know I'm being annoying, but I can't help it. I don't deserve you being nice to me. And I can handle looking like a douche with crappy tattoos if it means my mom won't be scared of me anymore. I hate that she's scared of me. I hate even more that she should be."

Stiles notices he's shaking and takes wraps an arm around him. His skin is so cold – even for Stiles, who is perpetually an ice cube. He squeezes the kid close to him. Nathan doesn't pull away. Then he remembers.

How much he wants people around him. But that's why he pushes them away. Because Nathan was right. They should be afraid of him. Because it's true. And he's starved for affection and touch and warmth, but he's just so damn afraid to ask for it.

But Nathan needs it. And he's not warm. But he'll try.

A family rounds the corner in the dressing room and Stiles is suddenly very aware he's hugging a nine-year-old without a shirt on.

"Um…" he stammers. "This isn't what it looks like."

They make a disgusted face and whirl around, leaving Nathan to giggle as Stiles immediately lets go. "You might get arrested," he giggles, sounding like a kid for the first time.

Stiles shrugs. "Not a big deal for me in this town, seeing as my dad is the Sheriff."

Nathan laughs even harder at that.

Stiles joins him and quickly puts his shirt back on. As he's pulling his head through, his eyes catch someone in the distance. He freezes. Trying to stay as calm as possible, Stiles takes his phone out of his pocket with trembling hands. "Nathan," he says softly, but his voice gives him away. "Take the phone and go inside the dressing room. Text Scott."

Nathan grows still, staring at Stiles' phone. "What should I say?"

Stiles doesn't take his eyes off the woman. She smirks at him, her eyes falling to Nathan. Her grin stretches wider.

"Tell him Kate Argent is here."

XXX

Stiles’ hands are trembling. He catches Kate’s eye and he sees her walking over to him. He places a hand on the door, where he hears Nathan’s sharp intakes of breath and shuffles around a bit. “Bud, you gotta be as quiet as you possibly can,” Stiles says softly, making sure he puts himself in front of the door. Even though there’s no reason, he feels the twinge of his ribs as Kate moves closer to him. It’s like they’re telling him he’s in no position to win a fight against the supernatural. “Has Scott responded?”

“He says he’s on his way.” Nathan whispers, his voice full of fear.

“It’s okay,” Stiles mutters, even though he doesn’t quite believe it. “It’s okay, just hang out in there and try and stay as quiet as possible.”

“Well, well, well,” Kate says as she approaches them, eyeing the door behind. “Who do we have here?”

“What are you talking about?” Stiles says with what he hopes is an impudent smirk. He has a feeling the fear is coming through his eyes, and he knows if anything, she can smell it. “I just am basking in my own severe loneliness. You know me and my distaste for other people.”

Kate tilts her head condescendingly at him. “You’ve always been so cute when you lie. It’s mainly because you’ve always been so terrible at it. Unless, of course, it’s your father. You have a natural gift for lying and disappointing him.”

Stiles clenches his jaw, but doesn’t respond.

Kate steps closer, her eyes glinting with a maliciousness that he hasn’t seen since he looked in a mirror during the Nogitsune possession. His chest tightens. “Oh, did I strike a nerve, you precious lamb?” She asks, close enough for Stiles to feel her hot breath on his neck and the flash of her eyes. His fists are clenched and he reaches behind himself where a knife is tucked in his pants pocket, but he knows that even with a blade this outcome isn’t looking good. “Have you been having trouble sleeping? Because it looks like it.”

“You seem like you have something you’d like to say, and I think it save an extraordinary amount of time if you would just say it.” Stiles says, trying to seem strong for Nathan. He wonders if the small boy can hear the fear in his voice. 

“All those people dead,” she says, clicking her tongue. “And yet you still live. How does that feel, Stiles? I’ve always found that you have a particular knack for survival, even if it’s at someone else’s expense. How does the world feel without Allison in it?”

Stiles’ pulse quickens.

“Is it a little less colorful, lamb? Does Scott look at you the same? Lydia?”

Stiles can feel his chest tighten. The corners of his eyes are starting to darken and he can feel the panic rising in his chest. His shaking grows.

“How could they? How could they look in the face of you and not see all the death you caused?” 

“Why are you here?” Stiles snaps before he can stop himself.

Kate opens her mouth to retort, but someone beats her to it. “I think that’s an excellent question. Why are you here?”

Stiles can’t remember the last time he was so thrilled to see Scott. Sure, he always was happy to see his best friend. Because he’s on a brink of a panic attack – he knows it and he’s sure that Kate knows it as well – and there’s no way he could protect Nathan if he couldn’t breathe. 

Kate takes a step closer to Stiles, her eyes running up and down his frame. “Just saying hello to one of my favorite niece-murderers. The Lamonts say hello as well.” She says reaching out and stroking Stiles’ arm. Stiles’ is frozen in his spot, just the thought of Allison’s empty eyes lulling him into a panic. But not just that. The name. The name strikes fear in him in a way he hasn’t felt in a while. Kate continues to stroke his arm until she squeezes his bicep, her claws coming out and pricking his skin.

“Let go of him.” Scott says dangerously. His eyes flash a deep red, but it merely causes Kate to laugh.

“You tried that trick before, my dear. When you thought that you could reason with me a while ago. Flash your little red alpha eyes because you thought, since Peter killed me, I’d be obligated to bow to your Alpha-ness?”

Scott takes a move closer and mutters, “Get. Out.”

Kate lets go of Stiles’ arm, pin pricks of blood seeping through the fabric of his shirt. He flinches, taking the breath he’d been holding. “I was just leaving dear. I wouldn’t want your little friend behind Door #1 to freak out anymore.”

Scott tenses as she brushes past him, throwing one last look at Stiles. “I’m certain we’ll be meeting again, my little Lamb.”

Scott and Stiles watch her as she leaves, not saying anything. Scott turns to him and Stiles can tell he wants to say something, but they’re drawn out of their stupor by a faint crying.

With wide eyes, Stiles rushes over to the dressing room. He knocks on it furiously. “Bud, let me in. It’s okay now. It’s okay.”

It takes a few minutes, but the door slowly opens, revealing a tear streaked Nathan. Stiles hesitates for a moment, before wrapping him into a tight hug. Nathan grabs his arms, sobs breaking the awkward silence as he clutches Stiles, who merely holds onto him, his eyes squeezed shut.

Scott looks on. 

He doesn’t think he ever understood.

But watching the two of them clutching each other, desperate to never let go, he’s beginning to. Nathan looks so broken and weak – it takes Scott a moment that while Stiles had described him, he never saw the boy. He looked like the only reason he was together was due to Stiles arms around him, that he so desperately clung to.

Stiles himself had his eyes squeezed shut, his brow furrowed tightly. Scott knows what he’s seeing. What he’s trying to extract from his memory. He knows because he does the exact same thing.

Allison.

XXX

“This is not a negotiation!”

Stiles is shouting. Like, really loud.

Scott rubs his temples, casting a glance at the Sheriff, who looks positively stricken. Stiles hasn’t lost it like this in a while. Since before he moved. But now? Now he’s shouting and his words are echoing in the small Stilinski house. Lydia, Kira, and Isaac are (wisely) out of the way while Derek stands close to Scott, clearly wanting to do something, but not sure what. The one thing he has achieved so far is pissing Stiles off by recommending that he change shirts since he came home sporting a few blood streaks, which only set him off more. 

Nathan’s being held by his mother, but he’s not crying anymore. If anything, he’s glaring at Stiles angrily. Stiles doesn’t seem to notice or care.

“You two need to leave!” He’s shouting for what feels like the millionth time. “This isn’t like anything you’ve seen before – trust me, I’ve seen some things and it always is worse. It is always worse! And just when you think that can’t get any worse – when you are surrounded in a world that werewolves, then comes a group of psychotic hunters, and then when you finish with the psychotic hunters, there is a Kanima, and when you’re finished with the Kanima—“ Stiles voice is breaking and going louder and everyone can hear all the pain and strife and suffering that’s wrecking his body and for who knows how long. “There was an Alpha Pack and a Darach, and when the Alpha Pack and Darach were finished, there was a Nogitsune!” He screams out the last part, slamming his fist against the wall so the pictures rattle. 

He sucks in a deep breath.

“And when you think that a Nogitsune is it,” his voice is small, breaking and squeaking in the room. Scott doesn’t think he’s ever heard his best friend’s voice like this. So… defeated. “That it’s everything you have to deal with, you’re sent away. And you think things could get better. Maybe they’ll get better…

“You return from a hellish five months of running for your life only to return to find some psychopathic were-creature returned from the dead who’s only desire is ruin everyone’s lives!”

“Stiles, calm down.”

Lydia’s voice is small, but she speaks it loud enough to be heard over the heavy breathing.

Stiles whips his head, looking like he wants to round on her, but as soon as she catches his gaze, his open mouth – prepared to shout once more – closes. He huffs. “It’s too… dangerous. You can’t stay here.”

“Don’t I get a say in anything?” Nathan squeaks, pulling out of his mother’s embrace, his eyes wild with frustration. “Don’t I ever get a say in anything? I want to stay here!”

“Did you not hear me the past five minutes?” Stiles shouts.

“I doubt there’s no one in a five mile radius who didn’t hear you, Stiles,” Isaac mutters, but Scott can tell that he’s positively stricken. 

“Shut it, Isaac!” Stiles snaps. “Don’t you get it? If you stay here, you will die.”

“Does it look like I care at this point?” Nathan shouts.

Everyone winces at that. It’s just too… similar. Everyone’s staring at Nathan like he’s the most tragic being on the planet. No, that’s not entirely right. Everyone’s looking at him like he’s Stiles.

Stiles grimaces at Nathan’s words.

“No one ever asks me what I want to do!” The small boy shouts. “I was possessed by a freaking demon and he controlled me. I never got a say in anything and he made me do all sorts of horrible things. And now I get to see all those horrible things all the time. And then my mom forces me on this worldwide travelling experience where we get to find all these dead people. All these people who died. 

“And now you,” Nathan spits. “You’re telling me that I have to leave? Without asking me?”

“Don’t you get it, Nathan?” Stiles shouts. “If you die, I will go out of my freaking mind!”

Everyone holds their breath.

“You didn’t deserve this,” Stiles says, shaking his head. “You don’t deserve any of this. You didn’t deserve to be possessed and do all the horrible things it made you do. You didn’t deserve to do that. And most of all, you don’t deserve to die!” He screams.

“And you did, kid?” The Sheriff was done remaining silent. His eyes are full of rage and Scott takes a step back. He’s seen the Sheriff this angry and he knows what’s coming. “You deserved everything?”

“I certainly do more than he does!” Stiles exclaims. “I’m the one who dragged Scott into the woods that night, I’m the one who started all of this! We would be leading normal lives if it weren’t for me!”

“Stiles?” Scott asks hesitantly. He’d never heard this out of his best friend’s mouth. He didn’t know. He didn’t know the guilt. “That’s not your fault.”

Stiles winces, shaking his head. 

“He’s right, you know,” Derek says softly. “Peter would’ve found a way. And if it wasn’t Scott, it probably would’ve been so much worse. It’s been my experience that not all teenagers who turn have his knack for self-control.” He finishes quietly, his eyes distant.

Scott isn’t sure, but he thinks Derek just complimented him.

But Stiles isn’t listening. “You’ll die, you get that, right? You’ll die if you stay here. Kate saw you and she’s worse. Everything always gets worse.”

“Baby, maybe he’s right,” Nathan’s mom hisses in his ear. “We can figure something else out. Maybe we should leave while they figure out what to do about this woman. Then we can come back, huh? We can come back to Stiles.”

“No!” Nathan yells. “We’re a team! Stiles and I are a team! We’re the worst people on the planet – he said so!”

Stiles makes a noise that sounds like something in between a whimper and a scream. 

“And if we’re the worst people in the world, then we can handle whatever is ‘worse.’ Stiles, we’re a team now.” Nathan announces. “We’re a team.”

XXX

Nathan and Stiles are asleep on the couch.

Scott takes one last peek at them.

Stiles looks uncomfortable, but he has his arms wrapped the kid. Nathan’s face is relaxed – enough for his mom to say she hasn’t seen him like this since before the possession. The only person not looking at the sight as if it was a miracle is the Sheriff, who’s off in the corner muttering to himself. Scott can only make out the distinct words of ‘not right’ and ‘end poorly.’

A small part of him agrees.

“So we need to figure out what she wants. Like, what she really wants, not Stiles lame filtered version.” Isaac says. “He’s leaving stuff out and you all know it. Did she say anything in the mall? Anything you heard?”

Scott shakes his head. “She was mainly taunting him about Allison. Just… taunting.” The words are painful to get out, just like her name is painful to say. Isaac winces at it. “What we need is to figure out what happened those five months he was gone. Usually, I’m very against going behind my best friend’s back, but at this point I don’t think there’s another choice. There’s too much at risk. There’s too much to lose with Stiles like he is and a freaking ten-year-old refusing to leave his side. Deaton,”

The vet’s attention is caught, but he’d been standing relatively stoically in the corner of the room. “Yes Scott?”

“We need to research whatever clinic you sent him to in order to understand what he went through. What’s it called?”

“Haven.” Deaton responded. “It’s in Canada, past Ontario. But Scott, I swear, it has a terrific reputation for helping those who’ve gone through traumatic experiences with the supernatural. I have seen—“

“Wait, The Haven?” Derek says suddenly, his eyes flashing an electric blue for a mere moment. “Are you serious?”

Everyone stares at him, the air seemingly sucking out from the room. Derek’s visage changed so quickly that no one knows what to do with him. Scott can tell he’s trying to keep himself from wolfing out – probably would terrify Nathan’s mother – and he takes a few moments to control himself.

“Why in the hell would you send him there?” He finally manages, spitting out the words.

“What are you talking about, Derek? The Haven has been one of the frontrunners of supernatural therapy for years!”

“Except for the past five!” He shouts, looking like he’s about to slam his fist on the table, but he catches the sight of Nathan and Stiles sleeping in the other room and controls himself. “That center was purchased by the Lamonts shortly before my family was murdered.”

Scott’s attention, which he didn’t think could increase, is now buzzing. Lamonts. The name sounds so vaguely familiar.

Deaton, however, huffs. “I would’ve known if the Lamonts purchased Haven and I certainly wouldn’t have sent Stiles there if I thought that was the case.”

“Wait,” Scott says, putting his hand up before Derek can snap a retort. “Lamonts, I’ve heard of them before. Who are they?”

Deaton looks puzzled. “Where have you heard of that name before?” Scott shrugs, his brows furrowed in frustration as he tries to pinpoint the source of the name. “The Lamonts are a group of hunters that are very active in the northern regions of Canada. They are of a… particularly strict code. They believe that not only should the supernatural be stopped, but all supernatural lines should be eliminated. Regardless of their actions.”

Scott stares. “Basically they’re a group of Kate Argents,” Derek snaps, his eyes flashing once more. “Unlike the Argents who pretended they had a code for a while, they kill regardless. Their hatred for the supernatural runs in their years of lineage. My mother once spoke of them and their cruel methods. She said they weren’t our fight, but human’s fight. They wouldn’t listen to a werewolf.”

“They have also been condemned by most Hunters in the world – the Argents included.” Deaton says before Derek’s anger could grow too much. “Their tactics are beyond deplorable.”

“I’m telling you, Deaton, they have infiltrated Haven. What better way to train a bunch of new recruits than a whole mansion filled with traumatized teenagers who’ve been wronged by the supernatural?” Derek seethes.

“If that’s the case, why wouldn’t anyone have informed me?” Deaton says, an edge to his voice.

Derek looks at him like he’s an idiot. “Oh, I don’t know… maybe so you keep sending broken teenagers to them?”

“You two need to shut up, unless it’s to inform the rest of us what this means!” Lydia snaps, tilting her chin up and taking charge. “Let’s say the Lamont have infiltrated Haven and they have had Stiles. What does that mean for him?”

“It means,” Derek says through gritted teeth. “They spent however long he was there, trying to convince him to be a part of their cause. And knowing Stiles and his knack for mouthing off added with his undying sympathy for werewolves, things must not have gone very well for him.”

Scott sucks in a breath. “He – he did say, when he woke up from that nightmare in the hospital, something about never joining a cause or doing what someone said.” He mutters, his mind travelling back to the frantic nature of his friend that night. “Derek, I need you to specifically tell me what might of happened to him. We need to know what we’re up against.”

Derek looks at Scott. There’s a gentle timidness in his eyes that Scott rarely sees. A hesitation. Pity. But he sighs and speaks. “Scott, I need you to know that Stiles is a special case. I have been a werewolf my entire life and I have never met someone who instantly sided with us. Even when Allison found out what you were, she needed a little time – don’t you remember. And your mom? Remember how she didn’t speak to you for some time?”

Scott remembers. He remembers the fear and disgust in their eyes. He bows his head.

“But, unless I remember it incorrectly or missed something, Stiles never did such. He never pulled away. Do you know how rare that is with our kind?” Derek says softly. “Now, I know the past months have been a challenge, but if Stiles’ past actions are of any indication, he’d never agree to the harsh code the Lamonts live by. And I know exactly how they deal with people who reject their code.”

Derek’s eyes are soft around the edges. “If Stiles was in The Haven and they were in control of it, it would’ve been hell. They would’ve tried to break him. Tried to turn him against the supernatural. Tried to convince him to murder you. Me. Isaac – even Lydia. And then punish him for refusing to do so. The fact that he’s hear and trying to protect all of us is proof enough that their methods of persuasion did not work.”

Scott feels sick. He wavers slightly, enough for Lydia to edge toward his side and grabs his arm. He leans into her slightly, just her presence making him feel a little better.

“That’s assuming,” Deaton urges. “That the Lamonts have taken over Haven. Which there is no evidence of them doing so.”

“Besides me tell you that it is true?” Derek almost shouts. “And if they’re working with Kate Argent, it’s even worse, to quote a certain teenager. If it’s us against the Lamonts and Kate Argent, it’s going to be a massacre.”

Scott’s head is buzzing. It feels like there’s just too much information to fit into his small head. Everything is too much – being a True Alpha is too much. We’re just a bunch of teenagers. Allison’s words haunt him because of their truth. And because of her absence. 

“Wait,” Scott says, snapping out of his reverie. “I know where I’ve heard the name Lamont before.”

“Where?” Derek snaps.

“Kate Argent,” Scott breathes, casting a glance back at his best friend. “When she was talking to Stiles.”

Everyone turns to Deaton.

For the first time, Scott’s jaw drops.

Deaton was wrong.

XXX

Stiles finds himself in front of Eichen House again. He wraps his fingers around the cast iron bars, bringing his forehead against the cool metal. “Just go in, Stiles,” he mutters to himself. “Just go in and you’ll be fine. You’ll be just fine. Just do it.”

“I used to do that with my house,”

Stiles whirls around, drawing a pistol from his pocket and pointing at the movement in the shadows. “Who’s there?” He exclaims, trying to maintain his composure. 

Derek steps out of the shadows, his hands raised. “Calm down, it’s just me.” He says, slowly making his way toward him.

Stiles groans, holstering his gun. “Dude, are you following me?”

“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me ‘dude.’” Derek snaps, approaching the cast iron gate of Eichen House.

“How many times do I have to tell you to use your words and not be such a creepy stalker?” Stiles retorts, his heart pounding furiously. “And you never answered my question. Have you been following me?”

“Yes.”

Such a simple response for such a creepy question. “How long?”

“All day.” 

He says as if it’s the most normal and obvious thing in the world. 

“Why?” Stiles cries. 

“Because I know what you went through in the past five months. I know about the Lamonts.”

Stiles freezes. “H-How?”

Derek looks at Stiles pitifully. He hates that. “Deaton told me which clinic he sent you to. I’ve heard of what they’ve been doing to the place.”

Stiles returns his attention to the gate, no longer seeing Eichen House. “Did you tell everyone?”

“Just the basics. Not of their tactics.” Derek says calmly and Stiles visibly calms down. “I’ve only heard rumors. Rumors that I wish to be false.”

“They’re not.” Stiles says barely above a whisper.

Derek figures as much, but he tries to keep his face neutral. “I’m sorry for that.”

Stiles doesn’t answer. 

Derek doesn’t say anything for a while, but watches his distant eyes scan the institution. “I was merely saying that I would go to my family’s house. I told myself if I could enter it without panicking, it meant I was getting better. I used to wake up from panic attacks outside of it.”

Stiles still remains silent, which makes the air thick with tension. 

But Derek continues on, can’t help but feel incredibly uncomfortable with the role reversal. “It’s not weak to accept help from others, especially with things as difficult as these.” He says. “I didn’t go back into the house until I met you and Scott. Sometimes just knowing someone’s there helps.”

“I don’t want to burden anyone,” Stiles replies softly. “I’ve done enough.”

“So you think, but it’s startling how different people’s views of you are sometimes,” Derek says wisely. “You should talk to someone about it, you know. What happened. In The Haven. Someone you trust.”

Stiles’ jaw clenches. 

“It doesn’t have to be me. It doesn’t even have to be Scott. But you should tell someone. Otherwise,” Derek sighs. “The pain will eat you alive. And that’s how people perish.” 

Derek claps a hand on his shoulder. “Not tonight, Stiles. But you’ll be able to enter this place.

“Someday.”

XXX

Lydia reapplies her makeup, but for a mere moment, she wonders what the point is. What is the point of the careful application at this point?

But she’ll do it anyway, because it was her routine. Because regardless if she did it or not, everything would still be a mess. Allison and Aiden would still be dead and Stiles would be broken. It didn’t matter if her lipstick was perfect, no, but she chose to control the things she could. It made her feel a smidge calmer, if but for a second.

Scott approaches her with a friendly smile as he does every morning and she relaxes a bit. The past five months, while challenging, have been remotely durable due to the resident True Alpha. She never felt such a connection to a male – one where sexual attraction was eliminated from the equation, leaving only real friendship. She smiles as he approaches.

“He didn’t stay in his house last night, didn’t he?” She asks as he approaches and all Scott does is let out a hollow laugh. “Obviously not. We know him far too well at this point, I suppose.”

“Of course he didn’t,” Scott sighs, putting a few books in his locker. “Derek followed him all the way to Eichen House.”

Lydia feels a chill roll its way down her spine and she shivers. “What in the world is he doing there?”

“Oh, you know Stiles,” Scott says with a strained voice. “Probably some weird sort of penance for crimes he didn’t commit.” He growls slightly – low and steady, Lydia not sure if she would hear if she wasn’t standing directly next to him.

“Scott.”

He stops, looking sheepish in that adorable puppy-like way only he can. “Yeah, sorry. I just wish there was something I could do. I mean, what’s the point of being a True Alpha if I can’t fix any of this?”

“Probably the same as being a banshee without being able to control her powers. All I do is find the dead bodies.” Lydia says softly.

Scott shakes his head. “You know that’s not true.”

“But it is, Scott.” Lydia sighs, grabbing a few books. “We haven’t been able to do anything properly recently. I just feel so useless.”

Scott takes her hand and gives it a small squeeze. “We’ll get through this. Just like we get through everything.

Lydia appreciates the sentiment, but she isn’t sure how truthful it is. Scott did always have an annoying sense of optimism. That’s why she worked better with Stiles. Their sense of cynicism matched perfectly. Among other things.

So when Stiles marches through the halls of Beacon Hills High School, his hair casually windswept and sporting a new shirt – one of the few he purchased before being assaulted by Kate Argent – Lydia couldn’t help but feel her breath escape her a bit. Sure, he looks far more tired than she ever wished to see him, but he has a loopy, sleepy smile mounted on his face and he’s waving at a group of girls who are giggling in his direction. It’s clear he isn’t sure what to do with the attention, so he gives them a sideways smile, only sending them into further twitters. He shakes his head to himself and catches Scott and Lydia’s attention, smiling as he approaches them.

Lydia tells herself that the feeling bubbling in her stomach has nothing to do with that scene, but the frustration of feeling useless.

“What up, Scott? How are you today, besides having Derek tail me at all hours of the day?” Stiles asks.

Scott stiffens, but it’s clear through Stiles’ tone he’s not particularly upset about it. If anything, he looks amused, opening his locker with a flourish. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Dude, cut the crap.”

Scott sighs. “Look, it wasn’t even my idea – it was his. He said he used to do this all the time when I first turned—“

“Ug, so creepy, not surprised in the slightest, go on.”

“—and he just wanted to make sure you didn’t do anything stupid. I didn’t ask him to follow you.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Which actually makes it worse, if that’s possible. Look, dude, I already promised I wouldn’t run, right? You don’t have to worry about me making a break for it all the time.”

“You are literally the biggest idiot in all the world, Stilinski.” Lydia snaps before she can stop herself. He looks at her, startled, which only fuels her frustration and presses her to speak further. “If you think for a moment that we’re going to stop worrying about your scrawny little ass—“ Lydia tried not to stop to think about how so not scrawny that ass was. “—for even a second, than I should reevaluate my thought that you could potentially be my intellectual equal. Well, at least close to being such.”

Stiles lifts his eyebrows. “High praise.”

“No, it’s not praise, I’m insulting you!” Lydia snaps, exasperatedly.

“Clearly.”

He smirks and Lydia has to actively remind herself to not let her face flush. She was supposed to be scolding the idiot, not making herself feel like one. She tilts her chin up and turns away from him, only flinching when she hears his low chuckle as she does so.

“Actually, Lydia, I have a question.” Stiles asks and she considers ignoring it for a moment, but she senses a change. He sounds so soft and timid, that she breaks and looks back over at him. He’s looking at the ground, shuffling his feet like he used to when he spoke to her. Before… everything.

“Yes?”

Stiles looks expectantly at Scott, who merely stares in return. Annoyed at the ‘true alpha’s’ idiocy, Lydia clears her throat and stomps her foot. Finally it gets through to him because he nearly shouts, “OH!” like the oblivious moron he is. He rubs the back of his neck. “So, I gotta go so I can do… things. And talk to… people.”

“Smooth, Scotty!” Stiles shouts as he leaves.

They both laugh uneasily.

Stiles takes a breath and mutters to himself, “Seriously, after everything…”

“What?” Lydia asks, a little harsher than she intended.

Stiles looks up, sheepish. “I just can’t believe it.”

“Believe what?”

“After everything – werewolves, kanimas, nogitsunes – you still terrify me.” Stiles laughs and Lydia can’t help but join him. “I want to know if you’d like to go to dinner tonight. Just you and me.”

Lydia’s heart stops for a moment and she can feel her mouth agape. “What?”

Stiles’ eyes widen and he put his hands up. “It’s not like a date – I mean, I know you don’t, it’s not like I thought, I just wanted to… talk.” He finished lamely, his eyes darting around the hallways for what Lydia could only assume was a quick escape. “Yeah, okay. I’m gonna go to the bathroom to drown myself now.”

Before he could escape, Lydia reaches out and grabs his arm to keep him rooted to the spot. “Pick me up at seven?” She asks, her heart fluttering a little quicker than she’d admit.

Stiles looks like she just spoke to her in a different language. “W-What?”

“Would you like to pick me up at seven?” She repeats.

“Seriously?”

Lydia laughs, calming herself down more than anything. “Usually when someone invites someone else to dinner, they have a plan when the other person agrees.”

Stiles frowns. “I just don’t think it occurred to me that you might agree.”

“Well, you should plan better next time,” Lydia says with a smirk. “I thought that was what you were supposed to be good at.”

XXX

“Can you tell me why I’m here again?”

Scott groans, rolling on Lydia’s bed melodramatically, listening to the girls chatter about which dress she should wear. “We were watching a movie and Lydia needed fashion help,” Kira says, clear that she’s just happy to be included, even if she questions her own ability to be of any fashion help. “So, it was either you hang by yourself and mope, or you come along.”

“Yes, if you’re just going to complain, you may as well just leave. All I need is Kira, not you.” Lydia snaps.

Although, if she’s being honest, she’s glad they’re both here. It makes Allison’s absence just a little less noticeable if filled with two people. Of course Scott is of no help and Kira’s barely a little better, but she’s glad someone’s here, pondering over clothes.

Scott merely makes a wounded noise, but he stays on Lydia’s bed, grabbing The Catcher in the Rye out of his back pocket. “What’s the big deal? It’s Stiles, he’s probably going to wear a shirt with a superhero on it,” Scott mumbles, but Lydia can see his grin from behind the book. Everything seems so… normal.

“You and I both know that’s not true,” Lydia huffs, waving a finger at him. “You know Stiles when it comes to this stuff. It wouldn’t surprise me if he showed up in full tuxedo.”

“What are you guys talking about? He seemed pretty flustered in history class.” Kira mentions, running her fingers down one of Lydia’s dresses, maybe just to look like she’s being helpful.

Lydia frowns. “I don’t know. He seemed pretty adamant that it wasn’t a date when he asked.”

Scott snorts. “We all know it’s because he’s too afraid you’ll say no. If he thought you’d say yes to a date, he’d probably ask you out in sky writing, or something ridiculously cliché like that.”

“Maybe before he would,” Lydia says softly. “Now I’m not so sure.”

Scott peeks up from behind his book, eyeing Lydia curiously. “He’s still Stiles, you know.” He says.

Lydia looks at him, unsure if she heard him correctly.

“He’s still Stiles. He may be a little sad, perhaps even a little broken, but he’s still the guy who’s been in love with you since the third grade, he’s still the guy who corrects people who call your hair red – making sure they know it’s strawberry blonde – and he’s still the guy who calls you first when something happens to make you sure that you’re alright. He’s still Stiles.”

Lydia doesn’t say anything. She runs her hands down her dress, deciding that while Scott and Kira were entirely unhelpful, this was definitely the one she wanted. Kira, who’d been standing awkwardly off to the side, leaps forward with a smile. “So, I know that our styles are very different and I wasn’t sure how to help, but I wanted to do something, so,” Kira trails off awkwardly and hands Lydia a pin. 

It’s a beautiful, delicate glass lily, which Lydia turns to see a barrette. Lydia looks up at Kira, who’s swaying uncomfortably. “It’s been in my family for years, although due to current knowledge, probably means my mom’s had it the whole time. But she says that it brings good luck in things that bring light.” Kira shrugs. “I don’t know, my mom’s big on metaphors. But I thought you might like to borrow it tonight.”

Lydia isn’t sure what to say. She knows she needs to say something because Kira’s looking pretty sheepish. “It’s beautiful,” Lydia says. “Are you sure you’re okay with me wearing it?”

“Of course!” Kira chirps, brightening. She hesitantly approaches Lydia, pulling her hair back and fastening a small section behind the barrette. She runs her nimble fingers through Lydia’s hair and smiles. “You look really beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Lydia says softly, a small twinge in her chest where Allison used to keep home in. She missed her friend dearly. Often she isn’t sure how life is supposed to go one when someone is taken too early.

Death doesn’t happen to you, it happens to everyone around you.

Stiles’ words haunt her. She never understood what he meant until Allison was lost to this world. But that’s what keeps her grounded. All her friends are at risk again, and she isn’t sure if they could lose one another. She isn’t sure if those remaining could handle it.

The doorbell rings from the front hall and suddenly Lydia is a bundle of nerves. She whirls, wide-eyed, at the two companions in her room. “You can let yourself out, yes?” She asks breathlessly as – she isn’t sure why – the two laugh at her.

Lydia scampers down the stairs, opening the door with a flourish before the nerves eat her alive.

Scott was close.

He’s not wearing a tuxedo, but he is in a button-up and a tie. It’s strange to see him out of flannel, but a wonderful sort of strange. He grins sheepishly at her appearance, a faint blush creeping on his cheeks. “You look beautiful.” He says.

It takes a bit to calm her heart rate, but she manages to sputter out, “You don’t look bad yourself, Stilinski.” 

Stiles beams back at her. “Well, dinner awaits.”

The drive to dinner is quiet, but a comfortable kind of quiet. It’s still something that Lydia has to get used to in regards to Stiles, because she’s not used to being with him, cushioned with silence. With a bite of courage, she asks, “Penny for your thoughts?”

Stiles huffs a laugh, gripping his wheel a little tighter. “I’m trying to work up the courage to do this, before I back out.”

“What do you mean?”

Stiles shakes his head. “I thought we could talk. And I can’t talk to my dad because I’m genuinely worried for his heart and he’ll have all this guilt if I explain everything to him. I’m afraid he’ll try and do something in the legality side of things and to be honest, it would make everything even more of a mess. And I can’t really talk to Scott because he has so much on his plate anyway and I know that he sometimes struggles with anger and keeping his wolf in. And I want to tell him, but because of everything, I’m not sure I can. It’s just… hard. So I wanted to talk to you about some things. I think they’re eating me alive. And I had a recommendation that I talk with someone about it and I was hoping you’d be okay that I choose to talk to you?”

Lydia blinks. “Why wouldn’t that be okay?”

Stiles sighs. “Sometimes I think that people wouldn’t want to speak with me. After everything.”

She resists the urge to shake him. “The only person who believes that is you.”

“It’s enough.”

Lydia suppose he’s right about that.

There aren’t many restaurants in Beacon Hills, but Lydia finds herself at one of the nicer ones. Even Jackson didn’t like taking her here because, even though he had more money than the entire pack put together, he always said, ‘what’s the point of eating out if we’ll just end up in bed anyway.’

Turns out Jackson wasn’t the nicest boyfriend.

The two are led to their seats and Lydia finds herself incredibly distracted when Stiles rolls up his sleeves, revealing the ends of some of his tattoos and firm forearms. He rubs the back of his neck as he peers over the menu and looks at her expectantly. She then realizes he’s been trying to get her attention for some time now. 

“I’m sorry?” She asks. 

“Do you want anything to drink?” Stiles asks and she realizes that there is a waiter standing next to the table.

“Oh, uh lemonade would be nice.”

“That does sound nice,” Stiles says thoughtfully. “I’ll have that too.”

Lydia can’t help but every stolen look he sends to her, she has to look down at her plate. She tries to ignore the stutter of her heart and how when he gives her an expectant look, her tongue feels a little thick in her mouth like she’d trip over her words if she started to speak. Luckily, Stiles does it for her so she doesn’t make a fool of herself.

“So,” he starts uncomfortably, rubbing his hands together. “I’m afraid if I don’t start right now, I’ll talk myself out of doing this at all.”

“I understand.” Lydia says softly, not wanting to do anything to deter him at all.

“Okay,” Stiles breathes, visibly shaking from the other side of the table. “So, as you know, I went away for five months after… after I… tried to kill myself.” She can tell he’s struggling. She’s not sure if anyone ever said it out loud. It sounds so weird out loud. It shouldn’t have ever been in a sentence together. “It was a bit more of a challenge than I thought because I’m not sure Deaton really knows what’s going on.”

“He may have mentioned something about that.”

Stiles lifted his eyebrows. “Hmm, I guess I feel a little better knowing he didn’t know. A small part of me wondered, to be honest.” He says with a melancholy shrug. “Anyways, it’s a bit different than he explained it to me.

“You see, he said it was a place where people who dealt with traumatic experiences with the supernatural. But the people there had a bit different of an idea with what to do with the traumatized.” His eyes shuts and the lines in his face grows a little stiller than normal. “They hate the supernatural. And I mean that in the truest form of the word. They spent hours manipulating all of us, trying to twist our experiences. They forced us into combat daily, trying to convince us by letting us out in the woods. They used to trap werewolves and convince people to kill them. I had to watch it over and over. All I could see was Scott or Isaac. It was awful. And I tried fighting against it, I even tried saving a few. That… was a mistake.”

Lydia feels her bones ice over.

“What would you two like?”

The two jump and Lydia wants to strangle their waiter. Stiles blinks, as if he forgot they were even surrounded by people. “Uh, Lydia, do you know what you’d like?”

“Uh, this,” Lydia points to a random item on the menu.

Stiles does the same, blinking as the waiter takes the menus away. “Wow, I have no idea what I just ordered,” he chuckles.

“Neither do I.” Lydia laughs back.

“Mystery dining, I like it,” Stiles grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“So, you were trying to save werewolves.” Lydia prompts because she can see the doubt creeping on his face. He’s going to back out if he doesn’t say anything soon.

“Right,” Stiles does that sort of half smile that drives her nuts. She could strangle the waiter right now. “So, when I started resisting them, they started employing… different techniques. At first it was just simple whippings. That hurt like a bitch, don’t get me wrong, but I’ve been doing therapy techniques for years that have you envision yourself in a different place. So it wasn’t difficult to blank out when it was happening. Then they started putting me in isolation for days on end. I would hallucination and I swear to God, I would think the Nogitsune was back and I was about to murder everyone. It was awful. But not as awful as the last thing they did.

“It was the last week I stayed there. They said they had something special for me. I knew it wasn’t good, but I simply thought it was another form of torture. I didn’t think much of it. They locked me in a room that had a few knives in it. A pistol hanging on the wall. There was this skylight and remember looking at, wondering why that was there. And then I saw it. The moon.”

Lydia couldn’t help it, she gasped, putting her hand over her mouth as she stared at Stiles in horror. “They didn’t,” she whispered.

Stiles doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t deny it. “Next thing I know, there’s a growling and I realized they locked someone in the room with me. He’s making the noises Scott used to make when he first turned, except they were so much more terrifying. I could tell all he wanted to do was tear me apart. 

“Everyone was watching. Watching me in this cage with an uncontrolled werewolf, surrounded by weapons. The task was clear. Kill or be killed.”

He shuts his eyes, tears welling in them and Lydia isn’t sure what to do. So, for lack of anything better, she reaches out and grabs his hand, trying to still the shaking in his body. It doesn’t really work, but he at least opens his eyes. 

“I dream about that night often,” he says with a soft whisper. “He kept on attacking me and I was doing everything I could to avoid him, but after a few swipes to the chest, I knew I was going to die. If I lost any more blood, I would die. So I took the knife off the wall and I threw it at him.

“He made this awful noise before hitting the ground. I hear it sometimes when I’m just standing. That’s the real reason I didn’t try out for lacrosse. Tackling sounds so much like him. Falling to the ground.” Stiles bites his lips and tears roll down his cheeks. “Before I could tell myself, even if I didn’t believe it, that the Nogitsune caused all the horribleness. But this? This I did. I did it.”

“He was going to murder you, Stiles.” Lydia mutters softly, unable to handle seeing the horrible turmoil in his face. “He was going to murder you.”

“Maybe I should’ve just died. I-I’m just never strong enough.”

“Stiles, you are strong,” Lydia says, squeezing his palm and refusing to let go. “You are so much stronger than you think.”

“I was supposed to protect the werewolves. I’m supposed to figure things out and keep people safe and I couldn’t even do that. Their faces after that night, urg.” Stiles groans, pulling his hands out of Lydia’s grasp and running them down his face. “I ran away. I couldn’t do it. I knew I was supposed to be there for you and Scott and my dad, but it was so awful. It was just too much. Everything was just too much.”

Lydia accepts the fact that he’s curling onto himself at the moment, but tries to remain calm. “Now you listen here Stilinski. I’m not saying this because we’re friends, I’m saying this because it’s true. You are strong. And you being gone for five months was horrible. It was absolute hell. I kept trying to call you. It was second nature. Do you know how much that sucks? To have someone in your life that you rely on that’s suddenly gone? I would dial your number and then realize you weren’t there.”

Stiles sighs. “I’m so sorry Lydia. I’m sorry it’s been so hard.”

“That’s not what I’m trying to do, Stiles,” Lydia says. “I’m saying that you matter. And I need you to start taking care of yourself because you’re scaring all of us. And Kate Argent is here and she’s threatening us all, but you need to be okay. And what those… those… horrific monsters put you through doesn’t make you weak. It makes you strong. And you need to start seeing that in yourself. But until you do,” Lydia says. “I’ll believe for you. And I’ll remind you. I’ll remind you how strong you are. Every day if I have to.”

Stiles gives a small smile. “That would imply we speak every day.”

“I’d be okay with that.”

The two are smiling at each other when the waiter comes to their table, setting their food down in front. They both mumble thanks, Lydia frowning at the plate before her. She peeks up and sees Stiles doing the same.

“Wow, I really hate beef stroganoff.” He laughs, pushing his plate away.

“Wanna trade?” Lydia laughs, handing him her plate. 

“To one of many adventures!” Stiles laughs, taking her plate and lifting the lemonade glass.

And with a clink, the tension melts away.

XXX

“Do you not want me here?”

Nathan’s question startles Stiles, who is perfectly enjoying the quiet game of catch the two are indulging in. They’re laughably close because Stiles ribs are giving him more trouble than he cares to admit, but he doesn’t want anyone fussing over his injuries. So when Nathan revealed he had a soft spot for baseball, he wasted no breath asking him if he’d want to play catch. 

He instantly regretted this decision when his ribs scream at him after the first throw.

It’s a good thing Nathan isn’t particularly perceptive. He’s perfectly comfortable ignoring Stiles’ wincing as he throws the baseball. Stiles can already tell he’s calmed down a bit, that carefree smile back on his face. It’s worth the pain to see the ten-year-old actually acting like a ten-year-old.

Stiles contemplates his answer for a moment, but then he realizes there’s really no point in lying to kid like Nathan. “Yeah, but not for the reasons I’m sure you’re tormenting yourself over.” Stiles says, tossing the ball back to him. “I want you to be safe, that’s all. It’s not safe here in Beacon Hills.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be protected,” Nathan mutters. “Ever think of that, Stiles?”

“Well, congratulations, you’re an idiot.” But Stiles knows exactly what to say because it’d be what he’d say to himself (if he ever listened). “But if you’re entirely unmoved by your own safety, you should think about your mother. If you died, she’d probably have a hard time losing her husband and her son in the same few months.”

“You don’t know that. Seeing as her son killed her husband.” Nathan murmurs, weakly throwing the ball back at Stiles.

Ay, there’s the rub.

“I think you need to give your mother a little more credit. I think she can figure out that it wasn’t you, it was the Nogitsune.”

“Do you believe that about your Dad?” Nathan asks. “Scott?”

Stiles clenches his jaw. Nathan always knows what to say to make Stiles’ insides squirm. 

“That’s what I thought.”

Stiles sighs. “I just think you need to put a little more stock in your life. Because I do. And like you said, we’re a team. And teams stick together otherwise, there’s no team, right?” 

“You sound like an idiot.” Nathan says, but he laughs. 

Nathan peers at the ball in his hand and looks at Stiles, all humor gone from his eyes. “I hated my mom so much for dragging me around the country, finding all these dead people. I hated her so much. But I’m so happy she did because I found you.” Nathan says. “And I don’t know what I would do without you, Stiles.” The small kid says softly. “You make surviving everything not as bad, maybe even a little better. A lot better, even. I’ve never had a brother before, but I think I love you enough for me to pretend.”

Stiles doesn’t know what to say. His heart aches with the words that he desperately wants to hear over and over again. His chest warms and he tosses the ball. “Right back at ya, kid.”

XXX

Scott’s changing from lacrosse practice and for the first time, Stiles joins him after a lengthy run around the track. Coach yelled at him throughout the whole thing, usually taking about how much wasted potential he was. But it was relatively painless and it was nice to stretch his legs like he used to. After putting his headphones and he was able to tune most things out. He didn’t hear the thuds of the lacrosse practice, so he didn’t hear the dead body of the werewolf he killed.

But in the locker room is a different story. He didn’t think much of it, to be honest. He took his shirt off like he always used to, maneuvering around some of the team to get to Scott. Scott’s gaze is a little hesitant, but Stiles doesn’t think much of it. Scott’s acted weird around him all the time these days. 

Then, he noticed it wasn’t quite as loud as he remembered the locker room being. As he peers around the locker room, he notices that everyone’s indiscreetly staring at him as he rummages in his locker for some deodorant. “Look, I know I’m pretty, but what’s with all the staring?” Stiles asks with a chuckle. 

Scott returns the laugh nervously, his eyes flitting around everyone in the locker room, pleading. That only confused Stiles more.

Except Danny saves him from his confusion, and sends Scott into a panic. “Dude. You have more ink than skin.”

Instinctually, Stiles reaches for his back, his fingers tracing over the lines, stopping at where the whipping scars are. His mind travels back to The Haven and all the abuse his back took while it was there. And then the month it took him to find someone to seal his soul in his body, unable for the taking again. The moment of fear he felt before the tattoo artist gave him the sedative, his mind travelling to when the Nogitsune first came over.

So many different marks of pain, all visible from his back. 

Stiles finds it hard to look at Danny, but he manages to maintain eye contact. “I never got a confirmation on whether I was attractive to gay guys,” he says with a shrug. “I took your lack of proper response as a no, so obviously had to improve.”

But as he tries to talk his way out of it, he hastily pulls a wife beater over his head. But the damage is done. No one’s looking at him the way they used to. They aren’t looking at him like he’s the annoying, silly, ADHD kid who talks too much and gets out of hand too quickly. They’re looking at him like he’s a broken, terrible thing – a product of a cruel world. Something that needs to be pitied. 

Stiles hates that look, mainly because he doesn’t deserve it.

He quickly pulls a flannel over his head, grabs his book bag and rushes out of the locker room. 

“Stiles, Stiles wait up!”

Stiles knows he should wait for Scott, but he plows further ahead. He needs to put as much space between him and the locker room as possible. “Stiles! Stiles, wait up, please man, just talk to me! We’ll just talk about it. Like we used to.”

“I’m sick of talking, I’m sick of everyone thinking I need a therapy session at all times! I am not broken! Why does everyone insist that I am? It only makes me feel like it’s true!” He shouts, stalking down the hall. 

“I know, man! Let’s just talk. We’ll go somewhere and talk about it. Like we used to.”

“No!” Stiles shouts. Really shouts. It’s filled with frustration and pain and anger and hurt and sorrow and it echoes in the hallway. “No, I don’t want to talk! I don’t want another therapy session, I don’t want any more heart-to-hearts! I want to break things! I want to yell and scream and lose my fucking mind and have that be okay and have people not freak out that I’m gonna die or whatever. I want to lose it!”

Scott peers at him curiously, a thoughtful look spreading on his face. “Alright then. Let’s go lose it.” He says simply.

That, apparently, is what it took for Stiles to whirl back around. “What?” He snaps.

“Let’s go. Let’s go yell and break things. Let’s lose our minds.”

Which is how the two teenage boys from Beacon Hills found themselves at the bottom of the reserve with an assortment of weapons, booze, and other things littering their feet.

“Are you sure about this, Scotty?” Stiles asks, lifting what appeared to be a sword up to his eyelevel, brandishing to his side. “This has ‘bad idea’ literally written all over it.”

Scott’s almost vibrating with excitement. He places a few more weapons at the base of the reserve, leaping back from them. “Do whatever you want! Derek owns this property, so we won’t be disturbed. Do whatever you’d like!”

Stiles frowns at the weapons at his feet – deepening when he eyes the Jack Daniels. He’s reminded far too much of The Haven. Sure, Scott’s not feral, it’s not the full moon, and he isn’t bleeding out, but it still feels eerily similar. “I dunno. It doesn’t seem like a good idea…”

“Which is perfect!” Scott cries. “Because all of our good ideas usually go to shit!”

“Hey!” Stiles snaps. “I’m the one who usually comes up with those.”

“It’s not your fault Beacon Hills is literally a beacon for the supernatural. Even your obsessive planning couldn’t have prepared for half the shit we’ve dealt with.”

“That’s true,” Stiles mutters. “but it doesn’t mean I’m any less offended.”

“Then… let it out.”

Stiles hesitantly takes in the scene before him. Sure, this is what he wanted, but he isn’t sure how to react now that he has it. 

But then something rages in his chest. Everything – everything that has happened over the past year or so plays before his eyes, every heartbreaking, frustrating, and soul-crushing moment. And it occurs to him. It’s not fair.

He’s almost surprised at himself for the thought. It never struck him before this moment. He never really pondered the fairness of the situation because there was always a million things to worry about. But it simply was that: not fair.

Picking up one of the knives on the ground, Stiles twirled it in his fingers a few times before chucking it as hard has he c=possibly could at a tree. It connects with a solid thunk, the blade wedged in the bark. The anger builds up in him and he’s seeing red again. “It’s not fair.” He murmurs to himself, the words even worse when he says them outloud. “It’s not fair.”

Scott doesn’t hear him – or simply doesn’t respond, which makes more sense if he thinks about it for a moment. But Stiles grabs another knife and throws it at another tree, the blade imbedding in the trunk as well. “It’s not fair!” He screams, reaching down for a few more.

“It’s not fair that—“ Thunk! “—something used my body to do terrible things! And make me watch!” Thunk! “And then leave me with all the memories! So I have to see my hands doing it every single night!” Thunk! “It’s not fair that I can’t even look in the mirror anymore with seeing… him!” Thunk, thunk! “And it’s definitely not fair that Allison died and I didn’t!”

Stiles can feel Scott still, even though he’s behind him. He knows it’s happening. He knows that he’s holding his breath and maybe he hurt him by bringing Allison into it, but he simply can’t stop himself.

“It’s not fair that I have to keep this kid from killing himself!” Thunk! “I’m barely keeping myself together – who in the hell ever thought this was a good idea?” Thunk! “It’s not fair that people like Peter Hale and Kate Argent come back from the dead and important people don’t!” Thunk! “It’s not fair that I can’t sleep anymore! It’s not… fuck!”

Stiles yells, reaching down, but realizing all the knives and daggers are embedded in the trees surrounding him. “Fuck,” he whispers, feeling the familiar burning of tears demanding their presence to be known. He runs his hands down his face. He’s not angry anymore. No, it’s much worse than that.

Instead, he feels empty.

Turning around, he looks at Scott, who’s staring back at him with wide eyes. “I ran out.”

Scott peers at the barren ground. “All that’s left is the booze.”

“Maybe another time.”

“Yeah.”

Stiles blinks, a few of the tears falling down his cheeks. “I’m so mad, Scotty. So mad, like, all of the time. But I don’t think I deserve to be mad. I don’t.”

“Stop thinking your feelings aren’t valid!” Scott shouts, his eyes blazing a fiery red. “You had your piss-fest, now let me have mine! You matter, fucker!” He bellows, and even the branches quiver a bit. “You matter and I’ve stayed back, telling myself that you needed time to figure things out yourself, but it’s my turn. You matter and you deserve life and all the awesome things and I just can’t see why you can’t see that!”

“Because it’s different!” Stiles shouts, feeling nothing more than the urge to walk over and punch his best friend. “Because you can say all these nice things and all that, but it’s different because my hands killed Allison!”

Scott’s eyes flashed red. “Shut the fuck up! Don’t you dare day that ever again!”

The reserve rattled with the sound of his voice, shaking Stiles to his bones. He isn’t sure why everything made him so angry and murderous, but he glares at Scott with a fire Scott hadn’t seen in a while. “I’ll say it as many times as I fucking want, because it’s fucking true!”

Stiles isn’t sure what he expected, but having Scott sprint at him at full speed and tackle him definitely wasn’t it.

“Shut up!” He growls, pinning Stiles to the ground, holding his wrists in a vice Stiles knows he’ll never break. 

“No!” Stiles bellows, trying desperately to get out of Scott’s grasp, but nothing is helping. He takes a deep breath, calming his obvious trembling. Count to three, Stiles. He says to himself. Remember your training. Werewolves have weakness right in the…

Stiles swings his knee up, slamming into Scott’s shin. Scott yelps out in pain, letting go of his wrists and jumping to his feet. But Stiles takes the hesitation to grab his shoulder, pinching hard. Scott makes a noise and Stiles knows he hit the right nerve and Scott’s shoulder was tingling. With a calculated swing, Stiles swipes his leg under Scott’s and he falls to the ground.

It doesn’t go unnoticed that Scott isn’t even trying. That he falls with the grace that Stiles used to have. And that pisses Stiles off more than anything. “Fucking fight back!” Stiles shouts, looming over Scott with a fire that rages bright enough to set the sky aflame. “Fight back you stupid son of a bitch!”

Stiles grabs him by the collar of his shirt and slams him against a tree. “Fight back!” He screams in Scott’s face, but Scott does nothing but stare intensely back at Stiles, as if daring him to go further. “Why don’t you fight back?”

The last part comes out as a half-sob, the last few words catching and breaking. Stiles raises his hand to strike Scott, but can’t bring himself to do it, hitting the truck of the tree instead. Tears well in his eyes in a way that he hasn’t allowed himself to in a long time and the world around him feels a little blurry. “Fight back,” he can only manage a whisper, soon destroyed by a sob that escapes from his throat.

Instead of following Stiles’ orders, Scott wraps his arms around his best friend instead. Stiles goes limp in the embrace, sobs pouring from his mouth like he just busted a dam. In a way, he supposes he had. Everything that he ignored – all the pain and suffering from the past months grab him and weigh him down.

For a moment, he allows himself to be lifted up slightly.

Stiles clings to his best friend like he’s drowning. Maybe he isn’t. Can you drown above water? Stiles isn’t sure, but it feels like it sometimes.

“It’s okay to be mad,” Scott says softly in his ear. “It’s even okay to blame yourself and feel guilty. I’d never say your feelings aren’t valid. But please let me be here for you. Stiles, please. I can’t lose you too. I just can’t.”

Stiles doesn’t know why the words – the words he’s hear so many times and ignored – finally get to him. He clutches his best friend’s shirt and for a moment everything feels held together. Stiles knows that he won’t feel this way in a second – or maybe even two, but he doesn’t now and that’s what’s important. He holds onto that.

Scott peers at his best friend carefully. “Do you…” he stops wincing. But then whatever’s stopping him must vanish because he blurts out. “Do you want to go visit her?”

Stiles pulls away from him, unable to formulate a coherent response. “W-What?”

“Would you like to see her? You didn’t make it to the funeral and you’ve been gone for a while,” Scott responds sheepishly. “She’d probably kick your ass for not visiting her if she was here.”

Stiles can’t help but think that’s true, but the idea of standing in front of Allison Argent’s grave terrifies him to his core. 

But when both parties think he’s going to say ‘no,’ another answer slides past his lips.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

XXX

Too young.

Stiles stares at the engraving of the girl who stole his best friend’s heart and he feels like he’s on the verge of breaking. Scott nudges his shoulder, as if to say ‘go on – say something,’ but the words are caught in his throat.

“I-I can’t, Scotty,” Stiles says, taking a few steps backwards and shutting his eyes. “I-I thought I was ready, b-but I can’t.”

His chest tightens. Everything is becoming just a little darker and he feels a stillness in his bones that he he’s grown far too accustomed to. “Stiles, Stiles buddy, it’s okay. You don’t have to be ready. Take your time.” Scott’s voice is distant and worried. “Are you having a panic attack? Oh shit – should we count fingers again? Stiles, you gotta breathe, just calm down. I’m sorry, I’m sorry I suggested it.”

But Scott’s terrified ramblings did nothing to make his chest feel loose. Everything’s growing dark and before he knows what’s going on, he finds himself on the ground. “Stiles, Stiles, stay with me man! Come on!” Scott cries.

But he isn’t staying. One could say Stiles was leaving, leaving this mess of death and destruction behind him. Even Scott couldn’t bring him out of his panic now.

“Isn’t this a touching scene?”

But that sure as hell could.

Stiles sits straight up, waiting for his eyes to readjust to the surroundings, but all he needs to hear is Scott’s growling to know it’s bad. As the world slowly falls back into place and Kate Argent’s voice resounds in his ears., Stiles curses every part of his life at the moment.

Her voice is echoing in the cemetery, but neither of them know where it’s coming from. Next to him Scott has shifted, his eyes darting in the area. “Having a panic attack at the burial site of my dead niece. Real classy Stilinski.”

“Come out!” Stiles bellows. “Come out, you coward!”

“Coward?” Kate repeats, a throaty chuckle resounding from all areas. “You should really look in the mirror before calling me that.”

But she does come out and when she does, Stiles ices over.

She approaches them, fearsome and transformed, with one claw wrapped around someone’s throat.

“Stiles,” Nathan squeaks, tears streaming down his face. “Stiles, please—“

Nathan stops when Kate squeezes, her claws digging further into his skin enough to draw blood.

“Let him go!” Stiles shouts, a new wave of panic striking him.

Except this one is different.

This one doesn’t affect his senses or cloud his world. If anything, it heightens everything, makes everything seem brighter and more frantic and more real. Like he could feel Nathan’s terror and Scott’s deliberation with the beating of his heart.

“Did you listen to anyone when you ordered the Oni to murder Allison?” Kate asks, a wicked smile curling on her lips.

“Please, just let him go!” Stiles shouts, so not above begging at this point. “Just take me or whatever, but please – he’s just a kid!”

“And Allison was just a teenager!” Kate snarls back and Stiles feels the weight of her words and wants to crumble beneath them.

But Kate doesn’t allow him anytime to process before plowing ahead. “How does it feel, Stiles? To be so helpless again?” Stiles’ heart quickens and he clenches his fists.

Terrible. It feels fucking terrible.

But he simply stares ahead.

“Stiles, I always liked you – murdering of my niece aside.” Kate continues, tightening her grip. “But I couldn’t help myself when I saw you had a little shadow – probably tricked him with your fast talking that you love so much. Now, I didn’t want it to come to this, but when you finally ‘figure this one out,’ like you always do Stilinski, I know you’ll do the right thing.”

Stiles can barely get out, “What the—“ when she swipes fiercely across Nathan’s neck, his limp body collapsing to the ground.

“NO!” Stiles screams as blood spills all over a tombstone, Nathan’s terrified eyes forever stilled in that look of mounting horror.

Stiles barely notes Scott sprinting after Kate, the woman fleeing after her deed was finished. He barely registers anything.

The only thing he knows, in a space filled with bodies, there’s only one heartbeat.

And unfortunately, it’s his.

XXX

Nathan was declared dead an hour ago, but they’re still the only two in the hospital.

Scott keeps opening his mouth, trying this think of something to say to Stiles, but comes up empty every time. He’s sitting there, gravely silent and soaked in Nathan’s blood, his eyes dead and distant. For the first time in five months, Scott’s afraid. Not afraid in the ‘run for your life’ sense, but afraid that a repeat of five months ago in the bathroom might be an actual possibility.

His eyes are just so dead. They’ve been looking at the wall opposite of both of them for the entire time they’ve been seated here, unmoving and unblinking. If it wasn’t for his ability to hear the steady beat of his heart, Scott genuinely would’ve thought he’d gone comatose. He’s gripping the sides of the chair and his knuckles are a ghastly white.

The hospital doors swing open and several figures sprint down the hallways. Scott jumps from his seat when he sees Nathan’s mom and the Sheriff sprint down the hallways of the hospital, past Melissa, who shouts a quick, “No running, please!” in futility as they pass. Scott knows his mom had been at the nurses station, eyeing Stiles just in case anything happened for a while now. She’s probably the reason the Sheriff is even here instead of the crime scene, knowing what this incident would mean to Stiles.

Nathan’s mom approaches the two boys and Scott steps in front of the still Stiles protectively out of instinct, putting his hand up. “Where is my son!” She cries out, her eyes not leaving Stiles or his blood-stained shirt. When Stiles doesn’t answer, she screams it out again, “Where is my son?”

Stiles’ eyes finally snap from their resting place on the wall and gaze up at her, stricken. He leaps from his seat and stares at her, his eyes wide and watery. “N-Nancy—“ He tries to say more, but it catches in his throat and breaks off, a tear sliding down his cheek.

Scott can see the anger building up in the woman and casts a weary look at the Sheriff, who looks like he’s contemplating handcuffing the woman, simply to prevent her from lashing out at his own son.

“Where is my son?”

“Ma’am, we didn’t even know he’d been following us,” Scott tries to get out, keeping Stiles a safe distance from her. “We didn’t know he’d be at the graveyard, we’re so—“

“Was I asking you?” Nancy spits, her voice poisonous and harsh. “Do you even think I even care about you at all, you… you… DOG.”

Scott recoils from her words, the amount of venom coming from the woman a little overwhelming. 

Stiles presses a hand on Scott’s shoulder, moving him to the side so he’s no longer in between the two. He gives Scott a sad, beaten look as he steps toward the grieving mother. 

“He trusted you,” she cries out, tears streaming down her face. “He trusted you!”

Stiles can’t control his own tears. He mutters, “I-I’m so sorry—“

SMACK.

Everyone freezes in the room. Stiles doesn’t even touch his cheek where Nancy’s hand just contacted with his face, his skin already blazing a bright red from the contact. He looks a little startled, but after a moment, his face falls and Scott knows that he believes he deserves it.

“It’s not often I’m willing to admit this, but here I am,” Nancy says in a low voice, poison dripping from her words. “But I was wrong. I was wrong to bring him here. And most of all, I was wrong to ever believe you could help anyone!”

“Hey!” Scott shouts, pressing forward, but Stiles’ arm is so quick, he’s stopped before he can reach the woman. He could be handled being called a dog, but he cannot handle this. Not when he was showing glimmers of getting better. “Don’t talk to him like that!”

She barely even registers that Scott’s there. “I could never understand why Nathan was chosen – he was just a boy. An innocent. But I have no doubt in my mind why it chose you.” She screams and Stiles’ eyes widen just slightly – small enough so that Scott thinks that he’s the only one who can see.

And then he smells it. It starts rolling off of Stiles in waves; guilt, anger, self-loathing, and sorrow. It swirls around him like a tornado, wrapping his best friend in an armor of hatred for himself. 

The Sheriff’s face is screwed up in distress – unsure of what to do – but he finally gets out, “It’s time for you to go.”

“No!” She shrieks, her words becoming more panicky and deranged. She won’t take her eyes off of Stiles. “You murdered my son! You killed him!” She’s screaming and before anyone can react, she pushes Stiles so he stumbles into the wall. She starts swinging, her frantic shots hitting Stiles in the face, shoulder, and chest, but he doesn’t even try to defend himself. He doesn’t put his hands up and he doesn’t argue. “It’s… all… your… fault!”

“That’s enough!” The Sheriff snaps, grabbing the woman’s arm and pulling her away from his son. “That’s enough!” He shouts, his grip steely until she stops flailing around. When she calms, her chest is heaving and she’s still staring poisonously at Stiles. “Be thankful that I’m not going to charge you with assault.”

“Protecting him, again?” She spits. “You should be protecting people from him!”

The Sheriff only scowls, dragging the delirious woman from the area. Scott turns his attention to his best friend, who hasn’t move, his face a bright red with a few scratch marks littering his skin. His eyes are empty.

XXX

He doesn’t say anything the entire ride home. He brushes past the Sheriff and Scott when they reach the house and before either can say anything, the door to his room slams shut. Scott can hear the locks click in place.

XXX

Stiles looks around his room, the blank walls taunting him. His hands are trembling and he can still feel the sting of where Nancy slapped him on his cheek. 

Besides his trembling, he’s shockingly calm.

Calm because he’s resolute. He knows now. He knows that this needs to be made right and if that means that he’s reached his final days, he’s okay with that.

Because, quite simply, he cannot continue on like this. It’s too much. There’s too much darkness for any normal human to endure. It’s cruel. Before, when these dark thoughts descended, he was never sure if it was the Nogitsune or himself. This time, he’s sure. He’s certain that this is him. And he’s contented with that.

“When you finally ‘figure this one out,’ like you always do Stilinski, I know you’ll do the right thing.”

Kate’s words echo in his ears as he scrambles under his bed. It’s a good thing his father didn’t throw anything out while he was gone, because his hands hit the box he’s searching for. He pulls it out from under the bed, the different colored yarns coming into view as he pulls it out. 

His hands brush against the red yarn, taking a few breaths to calm himself down. He unravels a long piece of the red, curling it around his finger. Closing his eyes, he cuts the first string, tacking a few pictures to the wall.

“Alright, Stiles,” he says softly to himself. “Time to figure this out.”

XXX

Scott and the Sheriff sit in the kitchen in an uncomfortable silence. The Sheriff’s phone continues to go off as they sit there, probably because he’s not at the crime scene of the small boy, but Scott knows that he wouldn’t be able to do his job properly anyway.

Scott listens to the general rustling of Stiles upstairs to calm himself down, focusing on his heartbeat fiercely. Neither of them will say it out loud, but both know there’s one very important job Scott must do now. Stiles-watch. Scott counts heartbeats like it’s keeping him grounded to the world. Maybe it is. But his heartbeat is strong and steady which, if Scott is being honest with himself, is shocking. No hints of panic attacks, no screaming. Just a steady and calm beat of his heart. 

The phone beeps again and the Sheriff glances at it with a sigh. “The autopsy report on Nathan is complete.” The Sheriff says with a voice that sounds like he’s hundreds of years old. “They’re calling it a mountain lion attack based off of the claws.”

“Yeah,” Scott says distantly, still counting heartbeats.

“This is going to get bad, isn’t it?” The Sheriff says suddenly, rubbing his hands down his face.

“Yeah.”

“It’s moments like now that I could really use a drink.” The Sheriff moans. Scott tears his attention away from heartbeats to look at the Sheriff, confused. The man shrugs. “Now’s not a time to have my inhibitions lowered, as much as I wish it was. I fell apart when my wife died, leaving Stiles on his own for a while. I can’t do that to him now. Never again.”

Scott grows silent, unsure of how he feels about the Sheriff being so frank with him. He already feels like he’s been forced to grow up far too quickly, but he isn’t sure how he feels, being addressed like an adult. A part of him feels like he should feel appreciative, but it just makes him feel like the small child trying on his father’s shoes. He doesn’t know how to be an adult.

“Why would she kill an innocent 10-year-old boy?” The Sheriff asks.

It takes Scott a moment to realize that this question wasn’t rhetorical. “Why would she murder all the Hales?”

The Sheriff frowns. After a moment of staring at his phone, he asks, “How is Derek handling her return?”

Scott’s a little surprised by the question, but manages, “He’s dealing. I can’t say that he’s entirely thrilled that the person responsible for his family’s destruction is still around and more powerful than ever.”

“Poor kid.”

Scott can’t help but look at the Sheriff with his remarks. He never really imagined Derek as a kid because he always seemed like such a mature force in their lives. But, the more he thought of it, his yard stick for maturity was Stiles and Isaac, and they leave a lot to be desired. Derek Hale is in his early twenties. Maybe he is just a kid.

They all are, really.

“Yeah.”

The Sheriff gets out of his seat, the wood scraping loudly against the tile of the kitchen. “Do you want something to eat? We don’t have much, but I think there’s some leftover pizza in here.”

Scott shrugs, not particularly hungry, but understanding the Sheriff’s need to do something productive. He won’t be the one to take that away from him.

The Sheriff places a plate in front of him with a questionable-looking slice of pizza in front of him (it’s obvious that Stiles picked it out because it only had vegetables on it and what looks like a wheat-crust). The Sheriff has one himself and frowns. “This tastes like cardboard, by the way.”

“Awesome.”

The Sheriff huffs a chuckle. “Sometimes I think Stiles’ obsession with my heart has gotten wildly out of hand.”

“He just really loves you.”

“Yeah, I know,” The Sheriff says softly. After a moment of picking at his pizza, he groans, “I knew this was a terrible idea. I had a feeling in my gut – like I used to on cases with the supernatural that I couldn’t quite figure out. I knew this was going to go horribly wrong and mess up every step of progress he’s made.”

Scott has to duck his head because he can feel the tears coming. “Me too,” he agrees quietly.

The Sheriff shakes his head, his brows furrowing in anger. “I’m his father. I’m supposed to protect him. I’m supposed to make sure he’s okay.” He slams his fist on the table, causing everything to rattle and Scott to jump. “It’s my most important job and I can’t ever do it correctly. Ever since my wife died, I’ve be unable to keep him safe. I can’t even do that for her.”

“It’s not your fault.” Scott says, the words catching in his throat. Not just because it’s what you say, but because it’s true. 

The Sheriff snorts. “It doesn’t mean that I should get a pass for failing to make sure he’s safe. He deserves to be safe and…” He clenches his fists. “I’m his father. I’m supposed to protect him.”

“Sometimes, we can’t protect everyone.” Scott says softly, his own words hurting him.

He learned that one the hardest way possible.

The Sheriff opens his mouth to argue, but is cut off when an engine comes to life. He stares at Scott, his eyes wide. “It’s the Jeep,” he chokes out, getting out of his seat so quickly, the chair falls over. 

The two rush to the door, the Sheriff yanks the door open, just as the Jeep rounds the corner and disappears from sight. The two stare at each other.

“How did I miss that?” Scott bellows, running to the driveway as Stiles’ scent disappears with the back lights of the Jeep.

But the Sheriff is gone behind him. Scott frowns until he hears, “Scott!” from upstairs in the Stilinski house.

Scott rushes to Stiles room, stopping in the doorway as he does so.

It’s too familiar.

The Sheriff stands in Stiles room, his eyes wide as he does so, looking around.

Pictures are scattered all along the wall, red string connecting all of them. The yarn criss-crosses around the room, pictures of places and people flanking either side of him. But then he sees it.

In the middle of the room. All the red threads converge into three pictures.

Stiles Stilinski.

Kate Argent.

…and Allison.

XXX

He knew she’d be here.

It’s poetic, really. Well, if poetic meant completely deranged and sadistic, than yes, it was totally poetic. Stiles maneuvered his way around the burnt remains of the Hale house, his feet barely making a sound but he knows she hears. 

She’s there. He’s certain of it.

“Still one for the dramatics, are we?” Stiles asks calmly, continuing through the hallways of the tragic building. “Kate, I know you’re here. You may as well come out now.”

A light clapping resounds in the big house and he feels smaller than usual, if that’s even possible. Nowadays, Stiles feels pretty small regardless.

But when Kate Argent walks through a doorway, clapping her hands like he performed the most amazing magic trick there is, he feels positively tiny. 

“Did we finally figure it out?” She asks condescendingly, cocking her head in a way that makes Stiles’ anger break the surface. “Did you finally remember how to use your brain?”

Stiles clenches his teeth, but refuses to entertain her with a retort.

She steps closer to him, reaching out to stroke of his cheeks. “I can’t decide whether I liked you better with your baby cheeks and adorable shaved haircut, or now with all the edges.”

Stiles grabs her wrist before she can actually make contact with his cheek. “Can you not?” He snaps, but drops her hand when claws start elongating from her fingernails.

“Not so confident now that your pathetic little pack isn’t here to save you, are we Stiles?” Kate laughs, but she does step away from him, pacing around the room. “But I take it you figured it out?”

“There are a few pieces that are missing, but I have a feeling that I’d have to live in your twisted mind to ever connect those.” Stiles says, remaining rooted to the spot. He doesn’t let the fear get to him. Or, at least tries. His heartbeat is picking up pace. But he’s here by his own choice. At least, that’s what he tells himself. “Why me? Is it revenge?”

“I would be lying if that wasn’t a tinsy bit of it. But you still haven’t answered my question, dear lamb.”

“Resurrectio.” Stiles says softly, know he doesn’t need to strain his voice for the present audience. “Resurrection.”

The grin on Kate’s face stretches. “My wee lamb.”

Stiles huffs at his nickname. “And you need a sacrifice. A lamb, if you will.”

Kate’s smile broadens. “Not just any sacrifice. A sacrifice given, not taken.”

This doesn’t surprise Stiles in the slightest. He’s the one who showed up anyways.

“And who best to be the sacrifice of my dear niece’s life than the one who murdered her in the first place?” 

Stiles jaw twitches. He wants to scream out, yell, but he remains calm. “You murdered Nathan.”

Kate shrugs, as if the act was as normal as breathing. “Some sacrifices need to be pushed.” She turns on him, her eyes flashing and intense. “You are a danger to those around you, Stiles. As long as you exist, people are going to die.”

Stiles feels a lump rising in his throat, but he can’t quell it. 

“…I know.”

XXX

“I don’t like it, I don’t like it, I don’t like it,” Lydia’s muttering to herself, pacing around Stiles’ small room, which feels smaller with all the people crowded into it. It feels too similar, to real. She looks at the red string crossed around the room, linking everything up to the three photos in the middle of the wall. It’s painful to even look at Allison’s face, but she stares at it. There has to be something there.

Lydia pulls a few of the strings, but there’s no sound like there was before. She closes her eyes, feeling herself close to tears, but refusing to let them fall. She finally realizes what is worse than hear the voices all the time.

Not hearing them at all.

The Sheriff looks haggard and like he’s about to fall over at any moment. In fact, they all do. She wonders if he’s struggling with this more, especially since this time, Stiles willingly left. No possession, no darkness around his heart. He simply… left.

“Arg!” Scott shouted, slamming his fist into the wall. His eyes flash red (involuntarily, Lydia guesses), making Isaac, Kira, Malia, and Derek wince a little. The whole werewolf-dynamic is something that will forever puzzle Lydia, much to her consternation. “There has to be something here! If Stiles could figure it all out in an hour, we should be able to do the same!”

“Son,” The Sheriff says, placing a hand on Scott’s shoulder. Scott’s eyes fracture from their red state, turning back to their comforting brown at the older man’s touch. “We will figure it out. He just… thinks differently than anyone else here. We need to stop trying to figure out from his perspective and start using our own.” 

Lydia blinks at the wisdom of the Sheriff, marveling how such simple words ease the tension in the room almost immediately. It’s easy to see the resemblance of Sheriff and Stiles through their mannerisms and appearance, but it’s moments like these that she genuinely is envious of the two’s relationship. Stiles is the Sheriff’s son, to be put simply.

She absently pulls the strings around the room, her fingers brushing against them.

“Wee lamb.”

“Everybody shut up.” Lydia snaps, whispers taunting her ears. She pulls the string again, but…

Nothing.

Everyone remains silent for a while, but Scott tentatively asks, “Did you hear something, Lydia?”

“I thought, I did,” Lydia says softly, eyeing the Sheriff with apprehension from the last time she led everyone astray with her banshee powers. The Sheriff seems to recognize the hesitation because he gives her an encouraging nod. “But it didn’t happen again.”

Scott doesn’t seem to register her uncertainty. “What did you hear?”

Lydia pulls more strings, the silence more infuriating each time. “Something about a lamb?”

Scott stiffens. “That’s what Kate started calling Stiles.”

Everyone looks at each other for a moment.

Finally, the Sheriff clears his throat, his eyes shining with tears, but never falling. “S-So what we n-ned to do,” he clears his throat, making the catches of emotion sweep away, replaced with his stern authority. “Is assume that Kate has my son. We need to embrace the worst case scenario and prepare for such.”

“But why Stiles?” Lydia asks, frustration lacing her voice. “She could’ve killed him at any time – why would she have done all of this to him? Why Nathan? Why attacking him, but never killing him?”

“Revenge?” Isaac whispers.

Derek clears his throat. “That would require having emotions. Keep in mind Kate was trained by Gerard – a man who was willing to murder his own family to get what he needed. Don’t question whether Kate would do the same.”

“Then why taunt him with Allison?” Isaac pushes back, his voice angry. Derek’s eyes are soft and gentle, like he welcomes an attack from the hurt Isaac, but that he isn’t going to back down.

“How else will she convince Stiles to do what she wants?”

Scott whirls toward Derek. “What do you mean by that?”

Derek sighs. “As someone who was personally manipulated by the woman, I know certain things to be true. And that would be that she knows how to read people to get them to do what she wants. Kate Argent wants something and she’s using her niece’s death to get it.”

XXX

Stiles follows her through the house, his footsteps hesitant, but deliberate. She waves him forward, but he maintains his pace, his fingers wrapped around the pistol holstered at his back. Kate seems to know what he’s doing because she smirks at him, but doesn’t say anything about it.

They enter the room, a rickety table set up in the middle, surrounded by plastic gutters, encasing the edge of the wood. There are metal cuffs screwed in where someone’s wrists and ankles would go, the entire set-up hooked to a tub in the middle of the room.

“I see that you have still retained your morbid sense of interior decorating – even after dying once.”

Kate barks a laugh, startling Stiles a bit. “You know, I always liked you best, lamb. It’s true. I sincerely will miss your sense of humor. You’re far more entertained to speak with than your friend.”

“That’s because Scott is a good person,” Stiles says distantly. “and I am not.”

“That, my lamb, is also true.”

Stiles runs his fingers along the edge of the wooden table. “So explain everything to me. You do this, this ritual thingy, and it brings Allison back to life?”

Kate’s grin is too broad for anyone sane, but Stiles remains. It’s better than the alternative. “You sound so mistrustful! I, in case you haven’t noticed, happen to be a resident expert in resurrection.”

“You and Peter Hale.”

A low growl emits from her throat. “Do not test me, Stilinski.”

Stiles can’t help but be unfazed by her brazen aggression. It’s simply hard to care about much when you’re considering your final breaths. “What’s the catch?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The catch,” Stiles repeats, his voice carrying an edge. “Have you never read Harry Potter? Resurrection comes with a price. Peter Hale never regained his powers. You turned into… whatever you are. A vicious Smurf?” He offers casually and she laughs in return.

“I sorta want to keep you.”

“Yeah, I’m good.” Stiles drawls. “What I’m saying is – nothing ever returns the same way. What’s the catch with Allison?”

“Are you really in a position to be bartering with me?” Kate asks venomously. “If it weren’t for you, Allison would be alive. The deputies who practically raised you would be alive. Nathan. Would. Be. Alive. For someone so clever, you are so dense at this trend. There’s only one connecting thread here Stiles. You.”

Stiles doesn’t argue.

XXX

“I still don’t get why you’re so certain it has nothing to do with Allison. I mean, Stiles even put her photo up on the wall!” Isaac exclaims, his eyes flashing a bright gold.

“Isaac,” Scott warns and his eyes return to their original color.

“Scott, it’s fine.” Derek sighs. “Because I know how she works personally and you don’t.”

“None of this conversation is productive,” Lydia pipes up. “While we’re here arguing whether Kate is more deranged than most Bond villains, Stiles is out there, probably doing something incredibly stupid. We need to stop him.”

Isaac purses his lips. “Do you mean just this time or every time he does something incredibly stupid. Because we have like, lives. That would be beyond a full-time job.”

“Isaac!” Scott bellows, a growl echoing with it. All the wolves bow their heads to his snarl and he doesn’t apologize. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, moving to the corner of the room.

Lydia uses the sudden silence to pull the strings around the room again, but to no avail. With tears in her eyes, she places her fingertips lightly on Stiles’ own photo, whispering, “Where are you?”

“Resurrection comes with a price.”

Stiles voice is as clear as if she’s standing right next to him. She yelps and pulls her hand back as if the page burned her, staring at his light eyes. “What is it?” The Sheriff asks hotly, noticing her change.

“It was Stiles. His voice… it felt like he was right here.” She breathes, touching his picture again. He doesn’t say anything, but she feels a cold draft waft through her bones.

“Are they saying that Stiles is dying?”

The Nogitsune’s voice plays in the back of her head, as the chill increases. Her heartbeat spikes and she can hear echoing footsteps behind her. She whirls around and it sounds like they’re coming from Derek. Derek returns her gaze with a quizzical look, stilling in a way that only a werewolf could.

“He is, you know.”

The footsteps are getting louder, increasing as she peers at Derek. She takes a few tentative steps forward, the drumming in her ears growing to the point that she can’t hear the questions from those around her. She reaches a hand out, Derek flinching slightly.

As soon as she touches his shoulder, she feels it. Electricity shocks her fingertips and she cries out, pulling back once she touches him. Derek’s eyes widen, as if he felt the sudden surge, but doesn’t step away. “What was that?” He breathes.

“Electricity,” Lydia mutters to herself. “Did Kate ever electrocute you?”

Derek’s jaw flinches. “Yes.”

Lydia feels like she wants to punch him for not getting it right away. “Where Derek? Where did she do that?”

Derek blinks, but she can see the realization spilling on his face.

“My parent’s house.”

“Let’s go, then!” Scott shouts.

Malia, who’d been leaning against a wall, trying to stay out of the way for a while now, cries, “Why? Why are we listening to a small redhead who claims to hear voices?”

Lydia’s eyes narrows. “Because sweetheart, this is what I do and, unlike some people in the room, I can actually control my powers. And for the record,” she continues, her voice sharp. “My hair’s strawberry blonde.”

XXX

Stiles stares at the metal cuffs. He runs his thin fingers and flinches, but doesn’t pull back. “So if you do this, Allison is back. Everything goes back to normal.”

Kate’s behind him, her hot breath on his neck, making the hair stand on end. “Not just normal, Stiles. Better than normal. Everyone gets what they want. Nancy gets her justice for her son. Scott gets the love of his life back. Lydia gets her best friend. And their lives are safer. You won’t be able to hurt anyone anymore.”

Stiles feels his tears threaten to spill. It makes sense. After everything, it makes sense.

But he can’t help but have a voice in the back of his mind. An annoying voice that won’t shut up.

Death doesn’t happen to you, it happens to everyone around you.

He shakes his head, trying to ignore the picture of all his friends and family in his mind. That he’ll never see them again.

Ever.

Again.

His last act being a broken promise to Scott. That he wouldn’t leave.

But if he gets Allison back, does it matter?

Stiles turns around, facing Kate with a stony face, his resolve set.

“Okay. I’ll do it.”

XXX

After the initial shock of actually figuring something out shimmers away, Lydia claps her hands together. “Let’s get going!”

She stills, the first signs of a scream tickling the back of her throat. “No,” she whispers, her eyes widening. She bites her lip, refusing to let the scream get the best of her. It settles in her throat, but it’s present.

Drip, drip, drip.

“Do you hear that?” Lydia asks, whirling around.

Drip, drip, drip.

“We can’t hear what you hear.” Scott says quietly.

Drip, drip, drip.

“The dripping.” Lydia whispers. “You can’t hear the dripping?”

“Dripping?” The Sheriff asks. “Like a faucet?” 

Lydia closes her eyes. She hears the splatter of the drips. “No,” she murmurs, her eyes widening. “Blood. The dripping is blood.”

Scott’s face pales. He sprints out of the room, everyone following him, but stopping dead when they hear a crash and a yell.

“Scott!” The Sheriff cries, pushing his way past everyone to run down the stairs, but halts when he sees the source of Scott’s distress.

Standing at the foot of the stairs next to a crumple Scott, Allison stares at them all. Her skin is pale and sallow, dark rings ensnaring her eyes. She’s still wearing the same clothes from the night she died, the dried blood splattering the floral print.

No one speaks.

No one breathes.

Allison gazes pitifully at Scott’s frozen form. “Scott, you need to get up,” she says forcefully, although it sounds as if she hasn’t used her voice in ages, like mud coats her throat. “You need to stop him.”

Scott squeaks, moving backward from the girl he once loved. “A-Allison—“

“Scott, get up!” She shouts and he flinches. “You have to stop him!”

“Stop who?” He finally manages.

“Stiles,” she says sorrowfully. “He’s giving Kate exactly what she wants. And if she gets what she wants, everyone will die. She will be too powerful to stop.”

“What is she doing?” Lydia asks, trying to ignore the horrid dripping and the sight of her best friend standing there. She wants nothing more than to run to her, but she’s afraid. Afraid of what this means and afraid of Allison. So, instead, she keeps a level head. Ignoring the breaking of her heart.

“Stiles is dying.” Allison says bluntly. “And if he dies and I come back… let’s just say I won’t be back for long.”

XXX

It’s a weird time to contemplate your life.

But if you can’t do it when you’re strapped to a table, your blood dripping down your arms into plastic gutters while you slowly die, when can you?

Stiles knows that Kate is somewhere around him, only by the sound of her high-pitched glee, but his eye sight’s going a little blurry. He watches the blood seep from his arms, trailing down his skin in a design that would be beautiful if it weren’t so morbid.

He thinks of his dad.

It’s odd – after everything; werewolves, kanimas, Alpha packs, nogitsunes, and werejaguars – he can’t help but think of his dad and his dad only.

It was the first Christmas after his mom died. His father wasn’t doing so well. He’d just spent a few weeks living at the McCalls (which Stiles later found out was court-ordered due to his increasing drinking problem. It was either stay with Melissa or go with Social Services), and Stiles wanted to try and make Christmas dinner for his dad when he got off work.

The problem is, watching his mother do it and actually doing it were two entirely different things. By the time the Sheriff got home, it was a miracle he hadn’t burned the kitchen down. All of the food was burnt, undercooked, or spoiled in some fashion or another. Stiles barricaded himself in the kitchen, pressing a few chairs up against the door so that the Sheriff couldn’t get in. Of course, Stiles locked in the kitchen by himself while crying hysterically doesn’t inspire a lot of confidence on the Sheriff’s end of things, so he spent the first half hour returning home from work on Christmas by pounding on the door, bellowing for Stiles to let him in. 

After a long time of coaxing, Stiles hesitantly opened the door for his father, revealing a mess in the kitchen. Pots and pans were everywhere and there was smoke swirling dangerously by the alarm, as if it was just teasing for the alarm to be engaged. The Sheriff took one look at his son and the flour coating his face and the floor, the tears rolling down his cheeks, and froze.

Stiles remembers he thought he would be in so much trouble, he’d be sent back to the McCalls. Not that he didn’t love that family with every core of his being, he just missed his family. His own family. He missed his dad. But then his father swooped him up in one of the tightest hugs Stiles ever experienced and everything fit. It was like the world stopped tilting ever so slightly.

Sure, it still hurt, but at least they were together once more. They had each other in that moment and it made everything seem a little less horrible.

So Stiles thinks about his dad. He was so resolved to die for such a long time, he didn’t know that he’s feel this way. That he’d feel like he was doing the wrong thing. He turns his head to watch his blood dripping off the table. This is how it was supposed to be, right? This is how he could make things right when he wasn’t even sure what was right anymore?

“Didn’t I tell you he would be perfect?” 

Stiles hears a distant voice, but it’s deeper. It’s not Kate’s. Frowning, he tilts his head, but just that motion makes the world swirl before his eyes and he has to shut them.

“Perfect.” Another person responds. It’s female, but it doesn’t sound like Kate. It’s too high-pitched. Maybe he was losing his mind or maybe this was an actual side-effect of dying – not knowing what the hell was going on – but he thought they sounded slightly familiar. He tries to recall where he’s heard the voices, but he can’t place them. “It was easy pressing all the right buttons. He probably even still believes that he escaped on his own accord.

Laughter follows that statement.

“We’d like our payment.”

There’s a low growl and Stiles knows that’s Kate. “You’ll have what’s yours, don’t worry. But I don’t do anything until I receive my end of the deal.”

“We got you the boy! The perfect specimen for you. If you can’t finish the rest, that’s your own damn fault. We set him up for the perfect sacrifice. We demand to be paid!”

Stiles frowns, the voices clearer. He has heard them before. He’s certain of it.

“Not until I see Allison. Once Allison is here, then you’ll get your reward.”

There’s a huff. “Maybe we should’ve just killed him when we had him.”

Stiles eyes widen, the darkness coming closer, but he’s afraid now. Oh, is he afraid. Because he knows exactly where he’s heard that voice before.

“We’re gonna break you, kid.”

XXX

“Can you not?”

Allison maneuvers around the group of them, her motions slow and sluggard, like she’s just woken up. She’s clearly trying to get them to focus on the severity of the situation, but no one’s moving. To be honest, Scott isn’t sure if he’s awake or not. Because Allison always is in his dreams, just not quite like this. Her face is beautiful – just as it always – but her eyes are empty. They aren’t afire like he’s used to and she looks, well, dead.

Scott isn’t sure what to do about that.

She notices him staring and sighs. “Don’t, Scott.”

Scott blinks, barely able to register that Allison just acknowledged him. “W-What?”

“Don’t start looking at me. Don’t start thinking things that you shouldn’t be thinking about.”

Scott isn’t really sure how to respond to that. Because how does one respond to the return of what could only be regards as his first and most dynamic love? He looks at her, his eyes falling to the blood trickling down her waist as if the injury was just given. 

“What am I supposed to do?”

He asks because sometimes honesty really is the best way to go.

Her hard edges soften for a brief moment and he genuinely feels like Allison is back with them, but her empty eyes still haunt him. “Go on like I’m not here.”

“But you are.”

Allison laughs haughtily. “But I’m not supposed to be,” she says quietly. Scott looks over at the one other person this must be killing – Lydia – and sees tears streaming down her face. He moves closer to her and grabs her hand, squeezing slightly as she turns away from her former best friend. “Listen, it was my time.”

“But you only got seventeen years!” Lydia cried out before she could stop herself. “That’s not enough time!”

Allison reaches out to touch Lydia, but she hesitates before she can ever do so. “I suppose, but I died fiercely.” She says with a sort of finality that not even Scott can argue against. “I was a warrior. I died protecting the people I care about most in this world. And yes, it was too soon. God, it was too soon.” Allison whispers wistfully, as if the words are physically hurting her. “But I died the way every Warrior wishes to die. Fighting.”

“Then why are you even here?” Malia snaps, shrugging her shoulders. “If dying is such a joyous occasion to you?”

Scott growls, his eyes glowing a fierce red. “Malia. Human. Manners.”

Malia blinks. “I don’t understand what was wrong with that question.”

Allison blinks. “Who even are you?”

Kira, who’s been in the corner of the room, pipes up after a moment. “You’ll have to forgive her. She’s still trying to get used to the whole ‘not in the animal kingdom’ thing.”

Malia merely rolls her eyes, but draws silent.

After frowning at the minor distraction, Allison returns her attention to Scott. “If we don’t do anything soon, I’m not going to be the only one in your pack to die at seventeen.”

That seemed to be the magic words to get the Sheriff involved. “What is it? What is happening to my son?”

“I don’t know the actual plan that’s set in motion, I just know what’s happening to two of us.” Allison says, walking through the McCall house easily. “All I know is that Stiles is, in the easiest way of explaining it, ‘trading himself’ for me. But, I have a feeling there’s more involved. And the more real I become,” Allison raises her arm to the light and Scott can see it. He can see the rays go through her and the dust settle through her skin. “The closer he is to taking my place.”

“But what is this supposed to be accomplishing?” Malia blurts out again and everyone sighs. “I don’t get the whole trading lives thing. Why is one person dead less bad than another person dead?”

Allison gives Malia a sort of half-smile – in an accepting way that only Allison could and that is so dearly missed – and says solemnly, “Because I know that they have no intention of keeping me alive.”

XXX

Kate stills. A grin stretches across her lips as she puts a hand up to the arguing people before her and she calls out, “I know you’re here, little wolves. Come out, come out wherever you are!” She cries in a sing-song voice that grates against Scott’s ears. 

Scott throws everyone a look that plainly states that they are to stay behind him, and he walks into the open room.

When he does so, everything stops. He sees the figure strapped to the table in the center of the room, blood draining from his forearms and Scott genuinely forgets everything. He forgets that he’s the Alpha, he forgets that his dead ex-girlfriend is standing next to him, he forgets that Kate Argent is grinning like a maniac next to the table. All he can see is Stiles strapped to the table, his head lolled to one side, his arms designed in a color he never wished to see.

“Welcome, my dear True Alpha!” Kate grins, gesturing them to come deeper into the room like she’s putting on a show. Perhaps she is, but it’s definitely not one that Scott wants to see. “We’re just about to get started!”

“Let him go!” Scott shouts before he can stop himself, because it’s not like Kate Argent is just going to start listening to him after all this time. “Just…” Even Scott isn’t sure what to say at this point. “Please.”

The last word doesn’t come out very Alpha-like. It’s broken and quiet. The plea of a seventeen-year-old boy afraid of losing his brother. Not an alpha in charge of a pack.

Scott turns to his left, honestly surprised that the Sheriff hadn’t rushed past him. Except when he looks behind him, he wished he hadn’t. The man’s face is drained of blood, tears already rolling down his cheeks. His body is tense, like he’s prepared to fight, but unsure of what. He glances over at Scott and Scott has to look away. It’s simply too painful. He knows he should give the man encouragement, but he simply doesn’t know how to do so.

Kate claps her hands together. “Well, this is a party, isn’t it?” She peeks around, her brows furrowing. “There seems to be an absence of one of you.”

That’s when Scott’s stomach plummets. A part of him didn’t want to believe Kate wanted to use Allison for her personal gain. That it was a plot of revenge and nothing else. But as her eyes dart around the room, growing more concerned at the absence, Scott’s blood boils. “You’re not getting Allison.”

Kate’s lips curl into an even broader smile. It’s terrifying. “So it is working – good for you.” She nods at a few figures at her right.

Two people grunt, clearly unamused. Kate sees the confusion in Scott’s face and chuckles. “Oh, right! You all haven’t been properly introduced. Children – and random adult – I’d like you to meet Frank and Pat Lamont. They’ve been responsible for Stiles’ well-being for the past five months.”

Scott’s eyes widen when the people give them half-hearted waves. They looked so casual, so nonchalant at the destruction of the teen next to them. Lydia squeaks behind him. “F-Five months?” Scott repeats. “No, Stiles said that he got out. That he was on his own.”

The woman steps over to Stiles, running her fingers through his hair. Scott clenches his fists, willing himself not to let his claws come out, but he feels the pricks of them in his palm. Stiles stirs slightly at the touch, causing Scott’s heaviness in his chest to lessen slightly. “Do you really think that anything that he’s done was outside our realm of control?” She asks, her voice sticky sweet. “Every single action in Mr. Stilinski’s life has been planned by us. Even his ‘escape’ from The Haven.”

Derek’s growl reverberates in the room at the name of the place, Kate chuckling at his reaction. “Lovely to see you here as well, dear. It’s been far too long.”

Derek doesn’t respond, but his eyes flash blue.

“Now, if Allison doesn’t come out to play too,” Kate calls out, her voice echoing in the cavernous room. “Then we can all just wait for Stilinski to die. And then I can hunt her down myself.”

That was it.

The snap.

Everything was just too much. There was too much death. Too much bullshit. Too many villains and not enough heroes. Just… too.

Scott lunges at Kate, his fangs bared and claws set. If his attack startled him, she doesn’t show it because she moves out of the way easily enough. Recoiling to his feet, Scott turns to sprint again.

Except this time, one of the Lamont’s step in. Frank grabs his wrist while he’s leaping toward them, swing it behind his back. Scott hears the snapping before he feels it, letting out a cry as his arm shatters. 

Surprisingly, and unsurprisingly at the same time, Malia is the first into action. Her eyes shine a bright blue and she sprints toward Kate, tackling her to the ground. Derek takes Scott’s lack of protest – his arm hurt pretty damn bad, so there’s really not a lot of protesting happening regardless – as a sign that he could enter too, and soon Derek’s thrown himself against the female.

Except the Lamonts are unlike anything Scott’s seen – even including the Argents at their most vicious. They don’t hesitate, they don’t flinch, and they certainly don’t cower from using deadly weapons.

Scott finds himself on his back, a few bullets embedded in his chest, blood seeping through his shirt as his body tries to knit itself back together. Then it hits him.

He’s seen these people before.

The day Stiles first returned.

They were the hunters fighting alongside Kate.

Everything makes sense, everything hits Scott like a ton of bricks and he chokes, making a strangled cry when Pat slices into his side with a dagger that must be laced with wolfsbane, bringing him to his knees. This has all been set up to this exact moment.

They didn’t get away from Kate that day because they beat her. They got away because Stiles came. And that was the point all along. Kate didn’t ever kill Stiles because that wasn’t the plan. The plan was to drain him and force him to be a sacrifice. And she knew. She knew exactly what to say to him, what to do to him to make him snap. Because she had the Lamonts. And the Lamonts had Stiles.

Everything had been set up. And all they’d done was play their roles.

Everything had led up to this moment, this exact point in time where his pack is bleeding out and dying, just like his brother strapped to the table before him. Scott manages to get to his feet just in time to see Kate swipe across Isaac’s chest so he crumples to the ground. “Stop!” Scott cries out. At this point, he’s not above begging. If it means his pack gets to survive, he would beg all night. “Stop!”

Surprisingly, Kate does.

But she keeps her claws poised at Kira’s throat, who’s whimpering on the ground. “Come on!” Kate screams, her words echoing in the room. “Allison, I know you’re there! Has the afterlife finally hardened you? Either you come out or I will murder them. One. By. One.”

Stiles makes a pained noise from the table and Scott can see tears streaming down his face. “Hang on, Stiles!” Scott yelps out, unsure of what hope he could give him when everyone was dying. “Please, just hang on! We got you, we’re here!”

“It’s time for you to make a choice, Scott!” Kate snaps. “Brother or lover? Which will it be?”

Before Scott can answer, before he can even fathom the unfathomable, a figure steps into the room, her gait strong for someone who’s been buried. Allison tilts her head up, her expression stony. 

Kate smiles. “Well, well. Look what just got interesting.”

XXX

“Stiles? Would you like to add anything to this discussion?”

Stiles doesn’t even look up. He’s afraid that if he does, his anger will best him once more and he’ll end up back in isolation.

The problem is, he knows what to say to make all the pain stop. He knows what Frank and Pat want. What they want is for him to finally admit that all his troubles – all his anguish – started when the supernatural entered his life. That he would help them. Help them help others that were like him – even before what he is now. So those who are contemplating their lives and struggling to even process their lives, can have the choices that he didn’t.

There are several reasons why he keeps his mouth shut. Some obvious, some… horrifying.

Point blank: he doesn’t want to be beaten. It sucks. Still under the ‘Nogitsune possession’ on the grand scheme of things, but still something he wants to avoid. Also, he doesn’t agree. And his past actions has shown that when he lies, bad things happen.

But secretly, in a way that makes him truly hate himself, there’s another reason:

He could lose himself so easily.

Because, the fact of the matter is, the supernatural is the reason his life went to Hell. Sometimes he lies awake and wonders what his life would be like if it never entered his life. Even if Scott wasn’t bitten, he’s certain they still would’ve been dragged into the conflict. But if the supernatural didn’t exist and there wasn’t even an option for any of this to take place, his life would be inarguably easier. Less pain. Sure, disease would’ve taken his mother, but he wouldn’t have taken Allison. He wouldn’t have been possessed. He wouldn’t have been kidnapped, beaten, and tormented more times than he could care to admit.

He doesn’t say anything because he’s afraid that he’ll lose sight of himself and give in.

“Stiles?” Frank Lamont prompts again when Stiles doesn’t say anything for a while. “I asked you a question.” There’s an edge to his voice. A warning. Stiles knows this warning. He’s heard it in the past when he’s about to have something happen to him that he wished wouldn’t, so the hairs on Stiles’ neck stand on edge. 

Stiles lifts his head and makes eye contact with the man, trying to remain as fierce and unyielding as possible. “I have nothing to add.” He states calmly.

“Again? I find that hard to believe.” Frank states, not taking his eyes from Stiles.

Everyone in the group shuffles nervously. This conversation has happened before.

It didn’t end well.

“Stiles, correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you get in the middle of a hunter/werewolf dispute due to the supernatural presence in your town?”

“Yes, but—“

“And weren’t you kidnapped by one of the hunters?”

“Yeah, but—“

“And before that, the Alpha of the territory who threatened to turn you?”

“Well—“

“And didn’t all the lies cause your father’s termination at his job?”

“He got that back—“

“And then there’s the whole Nogitsune fiasco.”

“Stop.”

“There are a lot of people who would be alive if you simply didn’t allow the supernatural to be a force in your life anymore.”

“Stop.”

“What were their names again? They both started with As, right? Ally A? Adrian?”

“I said STOP!” Stiles shouts, leaping up from his chair so quickly, it topples over, the clattering echoing in the room.

He’s breathing heavily. Maybe he was holding his breath the entire time, but he wasn’t aware. He’s not sure of anything at this point. He was sitting, but now he’s standing. He was calm, but now he’s not. He was a normal – albeit strange – functioning teenager, and now he’s barely holding himself together.

What happened?

Frank stares at him for a moment. He cocks his head to the side, surveying Stiles with a slight smirk. Stiles feels a chill run down his spine as he’s being surveyed, wringing his hands as he calms himself enough to grab his chair and return to a seated position. He waits.

Frank clears his throat. Then once more. He lifts himself out of his seat, putting his hands behind his back and then starts pacing behind all the teenagers around him. Stiles stiffens every time he passes behind him. But he always keeps walking. 

“Stiles, I get where you’re coming from.” He starts, his voice quiet, making him strain for each word. “I understand you have been manipulated to be sympathetic to the supernatural. You surrounded yourself with them and you feel a kinship. But I need you to understand this. Now listen to me, boy, and listen to me good.”

“Allison is dead.” He states and Stiles’ eyes widen. “She is DEAD!” He shouts and suddenly he’s right behind him, his bellow ringing in his ears. “And let me make something clear here. If it wasn’t for you – and if it wasn’t for the supernatural – she wouldn’t be dead. She would be alive. And that is on you.

ON. YOU.”

Frank motions to some people in the corner with a flick of his fingers and a couple of large men appear behind Stiles and grab his shoulders. “There’s a storm tonight, Stiles. I heard it’s gonna get pretty cold. I think a night outside will maybe sober you up to the reality of the situation?”

Stiles doesn’t have it in him to fight or struggle as he’s lifted from his seat.

“Listen, I like you, kid. And I hope you realize that you, whether you like it or not, have a path. And if you’re not careful, you’re going to be forced down it. And there’s really nothing you can do about it. We have a plan for you, Stiles. The only difference is? More people will die.”

XXX

Scott knows that it isn’t the case, but he thinks that time freezes. The moment that Allison steps out from where he distinctly told her to stay put, time stops. The only thing grounding him to reality is the gentle dripping coming from behind him. He tries not to focus on what the dripping is.

He wonders how everything got so out of control. How one moment, his biggest problem was making the first string in lacrosse and maybe getting Allison to go out with him, and then the next his best friend is strapped to the table, bleeding out, while the love of his life returns from the dead and takes his life force? Or whatever it is, really. But the point is still clear. How did they get here?

“Allison, it’s wonderful to see you again,” Kate purrs, taking a step closer to her.

Allison tilts her head back and retreats, her eyes fierce and focus. “Unfortunately, I cannot say the same.”

Kate clicks her tongue. “You hurt me, dear niece.”

“You are killing one of my best friends.”

Kate lifts her eyebrows. “Really?” She glances back at Stiles, who’s whimpering is softening and growing further apart. It still gnaws the back of Scott’s subconscious. Even with all the chaos and everything that’s happening, it’s still there. Cutting through him. “Stilinski? I never realized you two were that close.”

She shrugs, as if all of this is inconsequential to her. And if Scott thinks about it long enough, it probably is. 

The Sheriff uses this opportunity of distraction to shuffle over to his son, his gun still drawn in his right hand, but he reaches out. Setting the gun down at Stiles’ shoulder, the Sheriff grabs both of his son’s forearms, pressing down firmly. Kate eyes him, tilting her head like she’s considering doing something about that action, causing Scott to leap to his feet.

He can feel his body slowly healing itself, the skin knitting back together and the bones snapping back into place. He lowers himself in a defensive position between the Lamonts, Kate, and Stiles, a quiet growl emanating in the back of his throat. The Sheriff seems to take this declaration for his safety, because he leaps onto the table and kneels, grabbing both of Stiles’ forearms and squeezing firmly.

“No,” Scott can hear the Sheriff say as he bends over his dying son. “You do not have my permission to die. We had a deal, Stiles. Don’t you remember? We had a deal. And you don’t get to break that deal and die. This is unacceptable, Stiles. This is unacceptable.”

Scott pretends he doesn’t hear the catch in his voice. The fear.

Because if the Sheriff is afraid, they really all should be.

The werewolves, now no longer under attack, bring themselves to standing positions and make their way toward Scott. Once they are all around the table, Kate laughs. “Oh, keep your fur on, McCall. I have no intention of massacring your pathetic, prepubescent pack. Once I get what I came for, you all can return to your pathetically mundane lives. This is about so much more than a few measly werewolves.”

“Then what is it about?” Allison asks, her voice unwavering.

“What it’s always been about, dear niece.” Kate says with a smirk. “Power. And after everything falls into place, I’ll have everything I need. You see,” she approaches the table where Stiles’ lies, his breath catching and his skin drifting into a shallow pallor and his eyes glassy. “This really has nothing to do with possessions or anything like that. Do you actually know what’s happening right now? Because if this was any other person, you wouldn’t be standing there.”

Scott can’t help but frown at that. “What does that even mean?”

Kate grins. “I’m glad you asked, Scott. Because possession or not, it would have to be Stiles strapped to that table. Why?” Her eyes flicker mischievously. “I believe Deaton called it a Spark.”

Ice fills Scott’s veins. “What?” he whispers, but he knows that Kate can hear it.

“It isn’t his sacrifice and blood that’s bringing Allison back, it’s his sacrifice and Spark that’s making it possible. And his sacrifice is beyond of his life. It’s the Spark. And that Spark is filtering into a new host.” Kate states, brandishing a finger over in Allison’s direction. “Resurrection and a Spark? What a beautiful combination of power that would be.” Kate flicks her fingers and the claws emerge, her eyes flashing a vibrant green. “They say that when you take a life, you take parts of them. Sure, I could’ve taken Stiles’ and maybe been improved a bit. But why take a Spark when I can take more?”

Kate whips her hair and flashes a smile at Scott. “This is why you are going to fail in this world, McCall. This isn’t about doing what’s ‘right’ or making sure people live. It’s about self-preservation. Because in this world, there isn’t a right or wrong. There are people who play the game. So there isn’t ‘right’ or ‘wrong,’ there’s ‘winners’ and ‘losers.’ And the way you’re choosing to play? You’re going to lose really quick.”

Scott blinks, the smell of blood almost overpowering. Stiles has a very specific scent. He smells like freshly cut grass with a hint of lavender and honey. He never told his best friend that because he knew he’d get a rant about how annoyed his scent is so feminine. That it isn’t even a musk. But a faint, yet beautiful smell.

But the smell of his blood? It curdles his stomach.

Because, while his scent comes from the blood running through his veins, as soon as it’s out in the open, oxygenated and swirling around where people are breathing, it rots. The grass wilts and the lavender shrinks. The honey molds and everything is terrible. It smells like corpses with lavender sprayed over their bodies. It smells like a cemetery.

His eyes are watering.

“Come on, kid,” Scott can hear the Sheriff whispering behind him. It’s non-stop, the pleading. It’s like Kate isn’t even there and there aren’t people there with guns. It’s as though the two Stilinskis are the only two people in the loft. “You need to stop this. Please, stop this. You can’t leave me alone here. You can’t. We had a deal.”

The tension is rising and there’s bile filling in Scott’s throat. Because he doesn’t know what to do. He simply… doesn’t know.

His pack look at him – like he should have the answers or have a magical way to get them out of this situation – but to put simply: he doesn’t. He’s seventeen. He’s supposed to be thinking about college and what he wants to do with his life. He’s supposed to be obsessing about the new girl at the school and doing late-night video game sessions with Stiles. He’s supposed to exasperate his mom with his pranks, not with his life-threatening situations.

But, the decision is ripped from him.

BOOM.

A shot rings out in the loft, echoing throughout the room. Everyone dives to the ground. Scott peaks over his arms, panicking as he looks at everyone. His eyes catch everyone’s gaze – from his pack to the Sheriff, who planted himself over his son with fervor. Then… Scott’s breath hitches. 

With a trembling lip, he moves his gaze to the corner of the room to where Allison stood, his eyes watering. 

But she’s there.

She looks freaked out, but she’s there, in one piece.

“W-What?” 

Kate’s breath hitches as the strangled proclamation comes out, her clawed hands trembling as they find their way to her stomach.

Blood seeps in the fabric of her shirt as her fumbling claws paw at the gaping hole in her abdomen. She collapses to her knees, the blood trickling down her legs and splashing onto the floor. Black blood appears at the corners of her mouth as she gasps out a breath, her chest shuddering with every breath. “Y-You son of a-a—“

“A what, Kate?” Frank Lamont steps forward, a shotgun in hand. “Are you sure you want that to be your last breath? Because if my calculations are correct, with this potency of Wolfsbane, you only have a few more minutes before it finds its way to your heart. Because, unlike you in your hunter glory days, we have access to Wolfsbane that removes any possibility of recovery.”

He saunters over to Kate’s writhing body, black blood seeping out of her ears and nose. With a swift move, he kicks her until she rolls on her back, screaming an agonizing wail that causes Scott to flinch.

Regardless, it’s horrible.

With a swift movement, Frank stomps on the wound, grinding the heel of his boot over her abdomen as she cries out. “You forgot one important detail, Kate.” Frank seethes, his voice dropping to a terrifying decibel. “You chose us for our lack of tolerance for the supernatural, especially since your own family clearly softened. And you were right.

“We have NO tolerance for the supernatural, previous hunter or not.”

With a few more shudders, Kate grows still. Her heart grows silent.

One less life on this planet in only a few minutes.

With a smirk, Frank looks up from his handiwork, nudging Kate’s lifeless body to the side. Holstering his weapon, he sighs. “I always told you, Stiles, that we had a plan for you. Too bad you forced my hand to set it in motion my way. I did warn you, didn’t I, kid?” He claps his hands together.

“Who’s next?”

XXX

It took him three nights to finally fall asleep from exhaustion.

Stiles didn’t take to having four roommates very well, learning that these people loathed werewolves, or that his pillow was far away in Beacon Hills. He didn’t know how to be a human anymore – that was something that he was too afraid to say to anyone.

The fact is, he didn’t feel human. He felt used and betrayed, guilty and depressed, angry and murderous. He doesn’t know how one person can feel all those things and still be okay, so he concludes that he is not, in fact, okay. Maybe he’s not a human anymore. Is that a thing? Would he be described as a ‘Nogitsune Vessel?’

He taps against the metal bars of his bunk bed, the steady hum comforting in the strange place. He misses home. He misses home more than he should. But the sad thing is Stiles gets it – he gets why his father sent him away and why he’s here, trying to learn from his attempted… whatever. But he misses his father and Scott and Lydia and hell, he even misses Isaac.

Those words he yelled at them…

Stiles blinks away a few tears, sniffing in some weird attempt to hide his crying from the darkness. “Hey!” Someone shouts from above him and reminds Stiles that, while he may be alone emotionally, he definitely isn’t physically. “Some of us are trying to sleep here! We’ve got disembowelment techniques in the morning.”

Stiles winces into his pillow, his long fingers curling around the cloth. Disembowelment training. He’s certain that’s just as nasty as it sounds.

He presses his face against the clinic’s pillow and it smells nothing like the Stilinski household. He can’t smell the crappy generic laundry detergent his father used to buy. He can’t smell his dad at all.

All he can smell is disinfectant.

But, luckily, exhaustion comes to take him to the realm of sleep. He hopes his dreams will allow him pretend he is someone deserving of the family and friends he has.

His nightmares say otherwise.

XXX

It’s weirdly quiet now that Kate’s dead.

Logically, it shouldn’t be. She was one person in a room of only ten. But the Sheriff leans over his dying son and suddenly everything seems to go mute. He wonders if he should feel bad for the woman, but he can’t bring himself to do so. Maybe, in a perfect world, all death would be grieved.

But it is not a perfect world.

“Now, let’s get started!” Frank claps his hands together and the noise seems to explode the area. The Sheriff winces, but he returns his attention back to Stiles, whose entire body has slackened. His chest is rising, but it’s jerkier and slower than it has been. 

He doesn’t know what to do. He’s the Sheriff and he should have a plan. It’s practically in his job description. He’s supposed to always have a plan. If he doesn’t have a plan, people die. And right now? Right now his son is dying. And there’s a massive possibility that everyone in the room will.

Frank takes a few steps over to the Sheriff and Stiles, the Sheriff not thinking for a moment and removing his hands from Stiles’ bleeding arms and unholstering his weapon. “Stop right there,” he warns. “I know that you may be some semi-immortal hunter or whatever, but I’m pretty sure that bullets will do the trick.”

Frank merely smirks, nodding at the free-flowing blood at Stiles wrists and the Sheriff falters. 

As if she reads his mind, Lydia rushes over to the table and grabs both sides of Stiles, blood peeking through her fingers. She screws her face into one of horror, but to her credit, she stays there, Stiles’ blood under her palms. The Sheriff looks at his son one last time, wondering if he trusts this red head enough to keep his son alive, but there’s no other option at this point.

The Sheriff hops down off of the stone table, never removing his eyesight from the man threatening everyone who was important to him. He backs up a bit, if only to keep both of the Lamonts in his sight. This needs to end tonight.

He should’ve listened to his instincts. Everything was saying that he shouldn’t send Stiles to a clinic he knew nothing about. But he genuinely thought that Deaton would be a better person to ask. He barely knew anything about the supernatural. And just when he thought there couldn’t be anything more to learn – then freaking werejaguars exist!

Pam Lamont chuckles. “Our plight is not with you, Sheriff. If you want to take yourself and the redhead out of the area and live, we’ll be more than happy to allow you two to live.”

“Actually, I’m a banshee.” Lydia says, tightening her arms around Stiles.

“Lydia!” Scott hisses, his eyes widening.

She merely tilts her head in defiance, staring the two hunters down.

“Oh, well,” Pam says, her eyebrows lifting. “In that case, please stay. I’d hate it if you missed all the fun.”

“How do you justify it?” The Sheriff shouts, his hands as steady as ever. “You’re surrounded by teenagers and you’re planning on killing them. Teenagers. And that means nothing to you?”

“You want to talk about murder?” Frank says with a slow grin. His gaze flits over to where Stiles is stilling, his eyes growing glazed and distant. “Has Stiles ever talked about the night before we let him go?”

“No.”

The word is so quick and harsh, the Sheriff isn’t even sure he heard it. Lydia – who’s taken his spot bending over his son – glared at the Lamonts. When everyone turns toward her, her stare is unrelenting. “No.”

Frank lifts an eyebrow. “I’m surprised. With how much he cried, I figured he’d take that story to his grave. Which, incidentally, looks like that’s today.” Frank moves around, twirling a nasty-looking contraption in his hands. “Do you know what’s interesting about werewolf physiology? If you know enough about it, you can manipulate it. Similar to the pull of a full moon – except worse.”

He lifts the device in the air and presses a button, a high-pitched wailing noise coming from it. It rings throughout the room, echoing from every corner. The Sheriff can’t help but crouch down and cover his ears. When he returns to a standing position, nothing’s different.

Except…

All the wolves are growling. The Sheriff takes a step closer to Stiles and Lydia, the gun in his hand finally shaking. Allison runs over, drawing an arrow in her bow as the wolves writhe on the ground. Their eyes are changing color and the Sheriff can see their teeth peeking from their lips. “What did you do?” Allison cries, her eyes wide.

“I’m disappointed in you, Allison. As a hunter, you should know there’s a special kind of wolfsbane that can simulate the full moon.” Frank clicks his tongue. “It’s the exact same kind of wolfsbane that we used to make Stiles kill his first wolf.”

The Sheriff flinches as that, casting a glance over at Lydia. Her eyes are fierce. The story is probably as horrific as he’s playing in his head.

“You see, we won’t even have to lift a finger,” Pam says with a smirk. “You’re going to do the killing for us. And when the wolves inevitably rip you limb from limb, we’ll have no other choice than to step in and kill them. We’ll be just doing our civic duty.”

The Sheriff pales, watching as the wolves stand, their fangs and claws all visible. They turn toward where he, Stiles, Lydia, and Allison are, their eyes hungry and wild. “Scott,” he says, pleading, the gun in his hand now feeling foreign and heavy. “Scott, listen to me. I know you’re in there. I know you are.”

Scott merely growls in return.

Then he breaks in a sprint toward the Sheriff, his claws poised for attack. But when he’s about to tackle the Sheriff, a flash of metal swipes across his view. Kira jumps in front of the two, the base of her katana smacking Scott in the face. Scott howls and stumbles back, his nose bleeding down his chin.

“W-What?” The Sheriff stammers as the teen marches over to them.

“I’m not a wolf,” Kira says with a smirk. “The moon has no pull on me.”

She then brings the katana over her head, her gaze fierce.

Frank claps his hands together. “This is so much more fun than I thought! Supernatural against supernatural!” He turns to his sister. “It almost makes making a deal with a werejaguar worth it.” He nudges Kate’s dead body as he says so.

“Scott,” The Sheriff pleads again once the True Alpha gets back to his feet. Derek, Isaac, and Malia all flank his side, their eyes terrifying. “Please, snap out of it. Come on, this isn’t you.”

He receives a howl as an answer.

“It’s no use!” Allison cries, her bow shaking as she takes her aim. “They can’t hear you over that stupid machine!”

“Kill or be killed!” Pam Lamont laughs wildly. “Stiles should know all about this!”

The Sheriff couldn’t believe this. His gun is pointed at a bunch of teenagers. One of which he’s been through everything with. Lacrosse, his father leaving, bullies, supernatural – more than most family, let alone fathers of best friends. He stares at Scott’s blood-red eyes and his veins chill.

He can’t do it. He can’t kill this boy.

The wolves crouch down in a defensive position, the growls growing louder. Then in a swift movement, they leap in the air toward them, sprinting toward the humans. Before Scott can reach toward Kira’s throat, an arrow pierces his leg. He lets out a howl as Allison lets out a whimper. She stares at the bow in her hand. 

“Oh my God,” she whispers, her gaze falling on Stiles. “I didn’t think that would actually work! Lydia! Make Stiles talk! Keep him awake – I’m becoming too real!”

Lydia stares at her best friend, tears clouding her vision. She sees the arrow imbedded in Scott’s shin, the blood and wood all too real. Without thinking about the implications, Lydia squeezes Stiles’ forearms. “Stiles! Stiles, listen to me! Look at me, look at me you stupid idiot!”

Stiles’ head lolls from side to side, but he manages to straighten it and barely open his eye lids. “Yes, yes good! Good Stiles! Keep looking at me, okay? Keep looking at me!”

“I ‘lways wan’ to…” he slurs out and his eyelids flutter shut once more. “’ow do I kn’w this ‘s r-real?”

“Stiles, stop it! Look at me!” Lydia shouts.

There’s a sickening crunch and Lydia’s attention is torn away from the dying teenager. She cries out when she sees Kira thrown across the room by Isaac, her head smacking against the concrete wall. The katana makes a sound as it clatters far away, Kira in a crumpled, unconscious heap on the floor. “Oh my God,” she breathes.

The Sheriff raises his gun once more, but it quivers in his hands as the wolves descend on him. Scott brings back his claws, his eyes blank toward any emotion for this man. Raising his hand high in the air, he swings down, swiping across the man’s chest.

“NO!” Lydia shrieks as the Sheriff crumples onto the ground, his arm wrapped around his abdomen. Blood seeps from his uniform.

The wolves turn their attention to her.

“Scott! Derek! Stop, please!” Lydia cries, unmoving from her spot. She knows if she lets go of Stiles wrists, he dies. If she doesn’t, she dies.

A horrible choice was never so simple.

“Scott, please,” she sobs, bringing her head down to Stiles’ chest, burying in it. She can’t help the weeps coming from her, shaking as she keeps her fingers wrapped around his wrist. “Please don’t do this. W-We’re your friends. W-We’re your pack.”

A shot rings out.

Scott stops his approach.

His eyes are wide, his hands frozen in their attack position. Blood seeps from his front, seeping through his t-shirt. Lydia’s eyes widen as he falters, falling to his knees. 

From his seated, injured state, the Sheriff has his gun pointed at where Scott is falling, tears filling his eyes. The gun falls from his grip, the Sheriff’s eyes growing distant as his head falls to the ground. 

Scott’s eyes flicker.

Derek, Isaac, and Malia take one look at their fallen Alpha, and then back at Lydia and Stiles. Their growling becomes more feral, their eyes sharper. They crouch down, ready to pounce.

Twang.

Allison’s bow makes its familiar and painful sound, Lydia squeezing her eyes shut, not wanting to know which wolf has fallen next.

Twang.

“Allison, please!” Lydia cries out, but she doesn’t know what she’s pleading. 

It’s just too much. Too much pain and suffering. Too much death.

Too much.

“L-Lydia?”

That’s not Allison’s voice.

It’s Isaac’s.

Whipping her head up, she sees all the wolves staring at their claws, their eyes flickering back to normal color. She searches the room for the casualties, but everyone’s standing. Except…

The Lamonts.

The two people are on the ground, arrows buried in their chests. The contraption is on the ground a few feet away.

“W-What happened?” Isaac asks, shaking his head.

“S-Scott?” Malia manages, grabbing her head as she falls to her knees.

“Sheriff?”

“Kira!”

Lydia feels it.

The room smells like death.

She feels a scream bubbling in her throat. Except there’s something different about this one. It’s stronger, more powerful.

It’s for more than one person.

She looks at the Lamonts lying on the ground, the cement floor stained with their blood. Kira lying in a crumpled heap in the corner. Scott collapsed at the foot of the table. The Sheriff still on the floor. Stiles…

“Stiles!” She cries.

The teen is still on the table, his face pale. His chest unmoving. “Stiles!” Lydia cries, the last syllable catching. The scent of death is too strong, too forceful. 

“How do I know this is real?”

His words echo in her head and she grips his arms even tighter, sobs curling up her chest like a snake. “S-Stiles, please! Please don’t do this! Don’t leave me too!”

“I read something somewhere that demons aren’t musically inclined.”

Lydia lifts her head up to peers at the still boy. “I-I’ll prove to you that this is real.” She chokes out, praying that he could hear her. That he has to be able to hear her. She swallows, trying to tuck the scream further down her throat. 

Except no profound, moving song came to her. Nothing that would shift worlds and bring back the dead. Just a simple, stupid song that her mother used to sing to her when she was afraid of the dark. A simple, stupid lullaby.

“Y-You are my sunshine,” Lydia chokes out, wincing at the ridiculousness of the entire situation, but she’s past the point of caring anymore. “M-My only s-sunshine. You m-make me happy, w-when skies are g-grey.”

Lydia can’t help as a few sobs escape her throat. People are screaming. Derek’s saying something about the Sheriff and Isaac’s screaming about Scott. Allison’s over where Kira is, shaking her gently, but as far as Lydia can tell through her tear-filled eyes, she’s unmoving. 

“Y-You’ll never know d-dear, how much I—“ Lydia stumbles, her sobs louder. “—h-how much I… h-how much I l-love you.”

Lydia brings her head down to his chest, no sound to be heard. She buries her face in the folds of her shirt, tighter and stronger than the day she saw Aiden pass. Than when she clutched him after Allison’s death.

“S-So please don’t t-take… m-my sunshine…”

She can’t hold it in anymore. The smell of death is too powerful and the call to scream is too strong. She opens her mouth and shrieks, the sound ringing louder than the Lamont contraption, louder than the weight of the silence from the unconscious members of pack. 

Louder because it was meant for more than one person.

“…a-away.”

XXX

Thank God Stiles hadn’t replaced his father’s bullets with wolfsbane ones.

That was the first thing Scott thought as his bones snapped back in their rightful places and his body tried to heal itself. He felt like he just ran a marathon; logically he knew that it would take longer to get his body completely healed from the astronomical ass kicking he just received.

The second thought that hit him was, “Holy shit what just happened?!”

Because he wasn’t hurting everywhere because his body wasn’t healing (although, that certainly didn’t help). He was hurting because his entire pack was hurting. 

Blinking dazedly, Scott fumbles to his feet with the help of someone – Isaac, his blurried vision helped him that much. He frantically tries to see where everyone is, but can’t bring himself to focus on individual scents. All he can smell is blood.

And a lot of it.

“What happened?” Scott cries, stumbling as soon as he’s on his feet. Isaac catches him, clutching his shoulders and Scott attempts to steady himself. When Isaac doesn’t immediately answer, Scott shouts again, “What happened!”

“Scott!”

Scott whirls around, the fright in Derek’s voice scaring him. Derek never does fright. Sometimes he gets tense and more often he gets intense, but he doesn’t do fright. So when fright laces his voice, Scott goes against everything his body is telling him (i.e. don’t move) and rushes over to where he is.

And then his entire body ices over.

“M-Mr. Stilinski,” Scott chokes, his hands shaking the moment he lays eyes on him. He puts his hands out to cover the claw marks that line his chest, but they hesitate and shake. Blood pools underneath the older man, his skin growing cold. “O-Oh my God, oh my God, what happened?”

Then it came rushing back to him, the haze of red that veiled his vision and forced him to feel entirely threatened and scared. There was someone who felt like a threat and all he wanted to do was escape. And so he needed to take out the threat in front of him.

“O-Oh God!” Scott’s words quake as he presses his hands down on the man who became more of a father figure than his own ever was. “Oh God! I-I’m so sorry! I-I—“

“You okay, son?” Mr. Stilinski gets out, his words shaky and labored. His weak hand reaches up and brushes against where the bullet entered his body. The skin has since knitted back together, but the blood remains dried at his torn shirt. “I-I’m sorry—“

“No,” Scott’s words turn into a sob, too much red flowing through his fingers. “N-No, you can’t die. I-I can’t be the o-one to kill you. I-I can’t be the one t-to make Stiles…” Scott’s eyes widen. “Stiles!”

When Scott looks over to the stone table, he wished he hadn’t.

Because then, at least he could’ve had hope.

Lydia kneels over Stiles’ still body, her fists clutching his shirt, her volumous sobs echoing in the room. How did he not hear the before? How did he not hear Lydia choking? How did he not hear the absence of the heartbeat he took for granted?

“P-Please,” Lydia cries out, her entire body shaking not only herself, but Stiles. “P-Please don’t let this be it. P-Please…” 

“W-What’s going on?” The Sheriff asks, trying to get himself upright, but Derek gently places his hands on his chest, making sure he stays on the ground. “M-My son. W-What’s happening t-to Stiles? H-How’s m-my son?”

The only response is Lydia’s sobs. 

A light clacking of footsteps brings Scott out of his reverie. He glances up to see Allison, her jaw set and firm, her gaze stuck on Stiles. He has to look away. He can’t bring himself to watch her, to look at her. 

It would never be the same.

Seeing Allison – after she died – is like trying to fit an extra piece to a puzzle. Maybe it would make the image more beautiful, but it didn’t make any sense. All it did was confuse him. He wants to grab her and kiss her, but at the same time, he wishes this day never occurred. Scott thought he would give anything to see Allison again, but now he doesn’t know how to handle her presence.

Because when he looks at her face? He hears the empty silence of a world that no longer holds a Stiles Stilinski.

“M-My son,” Scott hears the Sheriff pant out, but he forces himself to block it out. He forces himself to look away from the tears pooling the man’s eyes. “M-My s-son.”

He can feel Allison gaze on him, but he stares straight ahead.

“Scott,” he hears Derek’s hesitant voice behind him. “Scott, we need to get him to a hospital or he’s going to die. Scott. Scott!”

But Scott doesn’t respond.

He’s just a teenager.

He can’t be a True Alpha.

Not like this.

“Scott!”

“I can’t, okay?” Scott shouts at Derek, tears blurring his already questionable vision. “I-I can’t…” His word is broken and he sucks in a breath that seems to escape him. “Please don’t make me.” The sentence comes out small.

He can hear Derek huff behind him. For a moment, he thought the man was going to scream at him. Instead, he hears a gruff, “Isaac, call an ambulance.”

Isaac stares at him. “How are we going to explain the sacrificial offering, the two dead supernatural hunters, and oh, I dunno, the return of someone whose died?”

Scott bows his head. 

Allison steps forward, toward the stone table where Stiles and Lydia lie. When she reaches them, she hesitantly puts her hand out to touch Lydia’s shoulder, but pulls back at the last time. Instead, she walks around to the front of the table where Stiles’ head lays.

Reaching out, Allison’s fingers tremble. She buries them in Stiles mane of hair, pulling through the knots. It’s weirdly intimate to watch. Scott wants to look away. It’d be easier. She brings her head close to his and Scott hears a faint, “It was never your fault.”

Then, she swiftly pulls her hands out of his hair. Grabbing the last arrow in her quiver, Allison gives everyone an apologetic look. “I-I’m so sorry. I’m sorry if my presence reopened any wounds. I wasn’t supposed to come back.”

Her lower lip trembles. “Scott, I would never make you choose.”

With a movement too quick to even understand what was happening, Allison swipes the arrow tip down each of her wrists and crumbles to the floor.

XXX

Of course there’s a door in a white room.

Because obviously.

Stiles knows he’s not the best person in the world, but he didn’t think he would be trapped in his own personal hell when he died.

He steps over to the door, contemplating whether he actually wants anything to do with this stupid piece of wood. Then again, it beats being stuck in this white room for all of eternity.

With a sigh, he reaches out and pulls it open, almost falling backward when it reveals someone on the other side.

Allison.

Stiles makes a move to cross the path toward her, but Allison puts a hand up and shouts, “Don’t!”

Stiles freezes, staring at her from the other side of the door. “A-Allison?” He chokes out, staring at the girl who’s haunted his dreams for more days than he can count. “Is that really you?”

She smiles that smile only Allison can have – the one where it fills you up from your toes and you feel warm even in the coldest of times. “You’re surprised?” She laughs.

“W-Well, yeah!” Stiles cries, shaking his head. “I mean, it was Kate. The last thing I expected her to do was tell the truth.”

Allison frowns, sitting down onto the white floor, cross-legged. She motions for him to follow her suit, keeping her hand up to clearly say that he needed to stay on his side of the door frame. “Then why’d you do it? If you didn’t even believe that she was telling the truth?”

Stiles shrugs, joining her on the floor. “The chance that you would come back to life was better than the chance that I would somehow forgive myself for allowing it to happen.”

Allison stares at him, exasperated. “It’s not your fault, Stiles.”

His chest clenches. It’s different. It’s different when it comes from her. It’s different when it’s from the person he killed. His eyes water almost instantaneously and he feels the deep need to hide. He gives her a grim smile. “Except that it is, Allison.”

She sighs from her side of the door.

Stiles hastily wipes the tears from his eyes, frowning at the room. “Last time I was here, a Japanese demon was trying to get me to be locked in my head forever through a board game. Oh how the tables have tabled.”

Allison snorts. “I really do miss your humor.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Usually people call it annoying.”

“Only because they love you so much.” She grins. “I’m certain they miss your humor just as much as I do.”

Stiles shakes his head. “But the world’s not funny anymore. It’s just a little darker… actually, fuck it. It’s a lot darker these days. It’s unbearably dark and horrible and so profoundly not funny that I can’t imagine… ever making light of it again.”

When Stiles meets Allison’s eyes, they’re filled with tears. “It’s always been horrible, Stiles. And you know that it has. The world is a horrible place. But there’s always hope. Always, always hope.”

“It’s hard to remember when you’re not here to remind us.” Stiles mumbles out.

“Maybe if you’d visit my grave once and a while,” Allison snorts, eyeing him. Stiles merely shrugs. “You can do this, Stiles. I believe in you.”

Stiles gestures to the room filled with white they’re in. “Can do what exactly, Allison? In case you haven’t noticed, I’m pretty sure I’m dead.”

Allison shakes her head. “Only if I take your place.”

“Take it!” Stiles shouts, his eyes wide. “Holy fuck, what are you waiting for? Go back! Go be with Scott or Isaac or whatever! Definitely go be with your dad and just be happy and make sure everyone else is happy! You never should’ve died in the first place! GO back.”

“No.”

With a single world, she shatters every foundation he’s one.

“Why the fuck not?”

Allison shrugs. “You said it yourself. Resurrection comes with a price. With Peter it was his strength and Alpha categorization. With Kate it was her humanity. Who knows what would happen to me? Stiles, I died. It was my time. I died saving Isaac and Kira. And I’m proud of that. I died a hero. Don’t take that away from me.”

“That makes no sense, Allison! How could I ever take that away from you?”

“You’ll take away how I saved my friends, replacing it with how I killed you.”

Stiles stares. “W-What?”

“Don’t you get it, Stiles? If I take your place, all people will be able to do is see you. See how you should’ve been here, but I took your life. You father would never be able to look at me. I doubt even Scott could. It’s not better, don’t you see? Nothing about this will ever be better. That’s just life.”

Stiles lip trembles. “B-But,” he knows he sounds like a child. He knows that it’s petulant and small, but he can’t bring himself to be anything otherwise. “But what about me? What about me, Allison? That’s all fine and dandy that you’ve come to peace with being dead and all. But what about me? I miss you, Allison. I miss you and I don’t know how to live in a world where you no longer exist. I just don’t know how to do it.”

She stares at him. The room is quiet and loud at the same time, but he isn’t sure how that’s possible. Allison reaches through the door frame, her fingers centimeters from his before she stops and retreats. “People always seem to forget how close we were.”

“I was your freaking messenger owl through 95% of your relationship with Scott.” Stiles snorts.

Allison nods her head, tears falling down her cheeks. “You were more than that, you know that.”

Stiles sighs. “Yeah. And you were more to me than my best friend’s girlfriend.”

“I know.” The words are soft.

“Are you sure?” Stiles asks, his tone urgent. “Because I really need to know that you know that. I never was sure.”

“I know, Stiles. I know.”

He nods.

Allison stands and he follows her. With a goofy grin, he asks, “Now what?”

Allison reaches out and just when he thinks she’s going to grasp his hand, she grabs the doorknob of the door. “When is a door not a door?” She grins, pulling it closer to her.

Stiles gapes.

“What?” She laughs. “Too soon?”

“Yeah, too soon!”

She snorts, pulling it closer. “What do you do now, Stiles? I thought it was painfully obvious.

“You live.”

The door slams shut.

XXX

“We’ve got a middle-aged white male, three puncture wounds from pectorals to abdomen, unconscious and not breathing. Take him to OR 2. Incoming in less than thirty.”

“Teenage white male, lacerations from elbow to wrists. Unconscious and unresponsive. OR 3.”

Melissa McCall peers up from where she’s enjoying her third cup of coffee for her shift, her eyes sleepy and body tired. She feels like she’s aged three years in the past one – does supernatural shenanigans speed up the aging process for humans? She wouldn’t be surprised if that were the case.

She lazily peeks over the counter of the Nurses Station at the two figures who are being carted into the hospital. It takes her brain approximately five seconds to comprehend who ‘middle-aged white male’ and ‘teenager white male’ were, and about three more to move from her frozen position behind the nurses station. Then she’s up and pouncing on the EMTs who’ve rushed them inside, asking, “What happened?”

The EMT stares at her. “I have no idea. We got a call. Animal attack is the only thing we can think of, but the slices on the kids wrists are very similar to…”

He trails off because of the elephant in the room. That’s not just ‘middle-aged white male’ and ‘teenage white male,’ that’s Sheriff Stilinski and Stiles Stilinski. But everyone seems to be avoiding that fact. Shaking her head, she gestures wildly for them to continue down the hall. “Well you heard them! OR 2 and 3! Get them there and fast!”

A few nurses scuttle fast behind them and she stops one. “It looks like they’ll both need blood transfusions. Make sure to stock up on both. The Sheriff is A+ and Stiles is AB-. Make sure they have more than enough. I don’t care what the center says to you, get enough to keep them alive ten times over.”

The nurse nods and Ms. McCall brushes past all the rushing people, fighting the flow of traffic until she bursts into the waiting room. And it’s as horrible as she expected.

They are all there. Scott, Derek, Isaac, Malia, Kira (with an ice pack on the back of her head – she makes a mental note to check the teenager out later). They all have tears streaking down their faces (except, of course, for Derek, who simply looks like he’s angry at everything in the entire world, but what else is new). She rushes over to them, her eyes wide. “What the hell happened?”

All of them look up at her, but they seem to stare through her. She doesn’t think she’s gonna get an answer until she hears Derek’s rough voice. 

“Kate.”

Ms. McCall closes her eyes at the word.

“She got to Stiles. The plan all along. Allison. Hunters who aren’t here anymore.”

The fragments aren’t making a lot of sense, but it’s more than she expected with the in-shock teens. Instead, she does something she can do, which is tip Kira’s head up and shine a light in her eyes. “How’s your head feeling?” She asks, frowning at the caked, dried blood at the base of Kira’s neck.

“I’m fine.” Kira manages. “I’m fine.”

Melissa sighs. “And Kate did that to the Sheriff? That was her doing?”

What she doesn’t expect is when everyone stiffens and turns away from Scott. Scott, however, heaves a breath, tears dotting his eyes. “No,” he says breathlessly. “It was me.”

He looks up at his mother and he looks all of seven years old. The tears are falling and his entire body quivers. “That was me. I did that. It was me. It was me.”

Without thinking of the scene that was starting in the waiting room of the hospital, Melissa wraps her arms around her son and holds on. “I’m sure it wasn’t you. I’m sure.”

“I-It was me, Mom,” he chokes. “I-It was me.”

And in that moment, Melissa understands Stiles.

Because she knows that her son would never harm the Sheriff unless under the influence of something. 

But he won’t listen to that.

So instead, she holds him.

That’s all really anyone can do.

XXX

As it turns out, even jacked-up, strung-out-on-wolfsbane-Scott was still, at least a tiny bit in control of himself. Because while the Sheriff lost a lot of blood and will forever have some really badass scarring on his chest, the claw wounds weren’t deep enough to ensure that he died. The only thing the doctors could come up with is that the animal ‘hesitated’ (if wild animals could even do that), and so the Sheriff gets to live.

That information probably saved Scott McCall a lifetime of guilt and nightmares.

Although, the Sheriff wasn’t the confusing one.

That special honor was reserved for Stiles.

Because the doctors – for the life of them – could not figure out how someone could lose 75% of their blood and still not die. Stiles had to hand it to them – it was a pretty perplexing question. And now his tattoos were cut in half by a thick stiches and he knows that he’ll have to be sedated and tattooed once more to try and forget this ever happened. Because that was Stiles’ game.

Ignoring the problem in hopes that it would entirely wash away.

The sort of magical part was how both Stilinski’s almost died. That’s the story on the street, however. Because apparently the Sheriff crashed in OR 2 and Stiles crashed once he was out of his own operation. They were in their rooms, dying and not with each other. That’s when Melissa McCall – always the hero in the 11th hour – came up with the brilliant suggestion that the two actually shouldn’t be in their own rooms. She wheeled the Sheriff into Stiles room and it was almost supernatural how quickly they both turned around.

Which leaves them both together now, watching baseball on the shitty hospital television, eating questionable food.

Stiles frowns at his jello. “Is this how you feel whenever I try and feed you tofu?” He asks his father, grimacing at the green substance.

“Yes.”

“I’m so sorry.” He gags. “Not that I’ll ever stop making you eat healthy, but at least I’m sorry about it now, right?”

His father just snorts and rolls his eyes at his son.

Stiles can’t help it – he smiles back. Because Stiles has heard a lot about anchors – from Derek, Scott, hell, even Peter – and he agreed with Ms. McCall that being your own anchor is probably the best. But the problem is, Stiles isn’t entirely sure he’s ready for that yet. He’s not ready to be on his own, no matter how much he tried. 

At one point, he thought his anchor was Lydia. She brought him down from more panic attacks than he’d like to admit. Sometimes he thought it was Scott. After all, they were brothers from different mothers.

But both were wrong.

Of course his anchor is his dad. It’s almost scandalizing how long it took for him to figure it out. Because as he was laying on that table, waiting to die, screaming and fighting happening around him, all he could hear was one thing. 

“We had a deal, Stiles. You do not have permission to die!”

There it is. 

Of course.

One of the nurses peeks her head in the hospital room, her eyes crinkling in that way the two Stilinski’s have grown accustomed to the past few days. The ‘It’s so sad you both almost died, but you two are simply adorable. Remember that time you guys got better simply from being in the same room as one another?’ It had been annoying, but Stiles has moved past that.

Because, they were adorable.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I need to take Mr. Stilinski for some check-up tests.”

Stiles frowns. “Which one? You realize we’re technically both ‘Mr. Stilinski’s.”

His dad huffs a laugh. The wheelchair is moved toward him and Stiles stiffens as his dad lowers himself in it, the nurses shaking her head with amusement. “No, kid,” he chuckles. “You are ‘Stiles.’ I am the only person in this room that is ‘Mr. Stilinski.’ You have not earned the title yet.”

“Good. I don’t want to be an old person.”

That earns Stiles a cuff upside the head as his father leaves. Stiles laughs, but he watches until his father’s out of sight. Because as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, he was very close to losing everything. On the grand scale of everything, his father did come before his own life. But that would’ve been his own fault too.

And now he’s left alone, once again, with only his thoughts. That was the most dangerous thing.

Because he feels guilty. Ashamed. Horrified that he played into the whole plan. It should’ve surprised him more that he was set up by the Lamonts since the beginning, but he was mainly pissed. Pissed that their plan almost worked. Pissed that he played his part perfectly.

Mainly pissed that he even had a part to play.

And in the corner of his mind, he was a little frightened. It wasn’t until Stiles practically choked it out of him did Scott admit that they all went back to Derek’s parent’s house.

The bodies were gone.

The Lamonts vanished.

Because in this town, staying dead apparently is more challenging than resurrecting. At least if you’re a villain, apparently. Because the good die young and they stay dead and that’s terrible.

As if he could hear the mental war that just started inside of Stiles’ head, Scott is in the doorway of his room.

His head is bowed – as it has been every time Scott’s come to visit. He’s barely able to look the Sheriff in the eyes, let alone Stiles. Stiles hates that the Lamonts did this to him. Made him feel like… well… Stiles.

“’Sup, buddy,” Stiles smiles weakly, motioning to the chair next to his bed.

It occurs to him that this is the first time he and Scott have been alone together since everything happened. It’s out of no personal thing against Scott (which, now that he thought about it, is probably exactly how he took it), but mainly out of the fear of his dad being out of his sight.

Scott shuffles next to him, slumping in the seat and staring at the baseball game. Scott hates baseball. But he watches it for a few moments regardless.

“I never understood, you know?”

When Scott does speak, Stiles knows exactly what he’s talking about. And he hates that.

“I never got it. I couldn’t figure out how to make you understand that it wasn’t your fault. I would get frustrated and angry and want to just smack you,” Stiles can’t help but snort at that admission. “but I never got it. Until now.”

Stiles gazes at his best friend. “I’m sorry that you understand now.”

Scott shakes his head, blinking away tears. “What if I’d killed him?”

“You didn’t, Scott.”

“Yeah, but what if I did?” Scott snaps over him, his eyes flashing a deep red. He blinks a few times until it goes away, looking at Stiles sheepishly. “I can’t be the person responsible for your dad’s death.”

“You wouldn’t have been, Scott.” Stiles says it, even though he knows it’ll fall on deaf ears. “I wouldn’t blame you then and I don’t blame you now.”

Scott’s laugh is humorless. “Except I don’t believe it.”

“I know.” Stiles sighs. “That’s the shitty part about everything, isn’t it?”

The conversation settles because it is shitty. And there’s really no arguing about that. But that’s when Scott’s voice gets even smaller does it really concern him. “Are you gonna be okay?” he asks, still looking away.

That was the question, wasn’t it? Because Stiles isn’t sure. He’s not gonna say that, but he really isn’t. He looks at Scott and thinks about his dad. Thinks about Nathan and Allison and his mom and that’s enough to take a person’s breath away.

But the fact is, it comes back. He breath comes back with every moment. And for that, he thinks he might be okay. Maybe. “I think so,” he says cautiously, staring at his best friend. “I think so.”

Scott peers at him – probably listening to his heart to see if he’s lying – and then asks carefully, “Really?”

Stiles smiles faintly. “Someone reminded me that there’s always hope.”

XXX

The two Stilinski’s get discharged two days later. Since they both are recovering, they are under strict instructions to stay with the McCalls (which Scott doesn’t mind and he’s certain his mother doesn’t). In fact, it felt nice to have the two men under their roof for a while. If anything, so Scott can keep an eye on them.

As they’re making their way out of the hospital, Scott can feel Stiles freeze at his side. He looks around for the source of his panic and ices over when he see Nancy at the Nurses Station. Scott can only make out a little bit of the conversation – something about a ‘Death Certificate’ and ‘body pick-up’ – over Stiles wildly beating heart.

“Let’s just leave,” Scott hisses, groaning when Stiles gets up from the wheelchair (so not hospital protocol) and marches over to her, his face set and stony. 

“I know why it chose me.” He states, causing the Sheriff to pale and Scott to tense and Nancy to turn around. Her eyes darken when they reach Stiles, but he looks so calm. Set. “And you’re wrong. You’re wrong about me.”

Nancy’s eyes water, her hands gripping what Scott could only imagine was the death certificate of her son. This was so not ending well. “How is that?”

Stiles lower lip quivers. “I thought for the longest time that I must be the most terrible person in the world. Because that was the only thing I could think of for having that happen. I-I convinced myself that I must done something terrible to deserve everything. I let the shadow overtake me and I lost myself for such a long time. Longer than I’d like to admit, really.

“But then I realized, I was chosen because… because I’m the most like it.”

Scott makes a noise and the Sheriff tries to stand, but Ms. McCall places a hand on his shoulder, giving him a knowing look.

Nancy’s grim. “No one’s arguing that, Stiles.”

“I’m the one who figures it out,” Stiles says bitterly. “I’m the one who plans and researches and thinks in a different way than anyone else. I’m the trickster. Out of me, Scott, or… or Allison, I’m the trickster.”

Everyone’s quiet. Scott can hear Stiles’ heart pounding in his chest like it’s begging to get out, but he remains resolute.

“Nathan didn’t deserve it. Any of it,” Stiles says, the tears falling down his cheeks. Nancy’s threaten to follow suit. “Any of the chaos, pain, or strife. He didn’t deserve what happened to him or what happened to his dad—“

“He told you?” Nancy asked, her voice breaking and soft. “He told you that?”

Stiles nods. “I cared about him. So much. And he didn’t deserve to die. Any of it, actually.

“But then again, neither did I.”

As soon as the sentence escapes his mouth, Scott stiffens. He peers over at his mom who’s beaming, tears in her eyes. He’s never seen the Sheriff look so proud.

“I’m seventeen years old. Seventeen. You can’t put all that on me. You can’t say how horrible to one person and then put everything on me. I didn’t deserve what happened and I don’t deserve what you’re doing now.” Stiles continues calmly. Firm.

“Listen, I don’t know if there’s a Heaven or Hell,” Stiles says with a shrug. “At this point, I’m open to almost anything after things I’ve seen. And I certainly hope there is because people like Nathan, Allison, and my mother deserve there to be a Heaven. Because if anyone could get into it, it’d be those three. 

“But I do believe that souls are real. They’re real things that can get just as beaten and tainted as our bodies. And for the longest time, I didn’t believe that I even had control of mine anymore. It felt like it was ruined. And what’s the point of anything if you’re soul isn’t even yours?”

Stiles tilts his chin, his jaw clenched and resolute. “But I’m done with that. With all of that. I’m taking it back. I’m taking back this soul that is so rightfully mine.”

With that, he whirls around and sits back down in the wheelchair. Tears are still flowing down his cheeks.

“I’m ready to go home now.”

XXX

It takes him three attempts to get out of the Jeep. Four, if you could the first time he touches the door handle.

Scott waits because he’s a good friend.

By the time they reach the headstone, the sun is setting. He texts his mom that yes, they’re still at the cemetery and yes, Stiles is finally out of the car. 

They stop before her grave.

Scott’s chest clenches as it usually does whenever he sees it. Allison Argent. It hurts, but it’s necessary. He’s not sure he ever wants that to go away. The pain is there for a reason. It reminds him of her, of what they’ve lost. What they still have the potential to lose. 

Stiles places the lilies at her grave, his hands trembling as they do so. He gives Scott a teary look and Scott nods, taking a few steps back to give them privacy.

He supposes this is how it all started. This gravestone. It all started with his absence and it ends with his presence.

Closing his eyes, he breathes in the smell of dusk. It’s earthy and alive and it may be Scott’s favorite time of the day. He listens to Stiles frantic heartbeat as his best friend kneels before the love of his life and Scott feels himself getting a little choked up himself.

“So, Allison,” he hears Stiles say. “I tried to make a few jokes today – for you. I don’t think they were very funny…”

Scott snorts at this admission. Stiles doesn’t like to talk about what happened when he was technically ‘dead,’ but it did change him.

He smiles at that.

Even gone, Allison manages to make lives better.

He tries to tune out his best friend’s chatter because it feels like he’s invading on a personal moment. So instead he looks at the woods.

It’s weird that it’s all changed in such a small amount of time. Because he can’t help but be afraid of what might be in there. They used to just be a forest. Now it’s so much more.

Scott doesn’t know if the Lamonts are still alive. If they’ll come back for revenge or stay hidden. He doesn’t know if Stiles will continue to be ‘okay’ (or as okay as one can be, given the circumstance) and he certainly doesn’t know what the next month holds for him.

So instead, he holds onto this one moment. This one moment were everything’s quiet. He can smell the beginning of rain and hear cheerful shrieks from the playground in the distance. He thinks of the family dinner that his mother is making for the two boys and the Sheriff and about how he may have a date with Kira tomorrow.

So in this moment, everything actually was okay.

XXX

Epilogue  
Two Weeks Later

Lydia considers calling in sick for school today. Her grades are fine – she could probably skip the rest of school year and still get into Harvard if she so desired. It would be better than having to deal with a particular absence again.

Because the fact of the matter is, it’s been two weeks. Two weeks since she last saw Stiles in the hospital. Two weeks since she gave up on him answering her texts. Two weeks since she saw him roll his eyes at his father, a very real fear ringing around his eyes.

She pulls up to the school, nodding to Scott and Kira as she sees them. Except…

She doesn’t go into the open parking spot next to them. Instead, she keeps driving to their confusion, Scott opening his phone as she drives away. His goofy face plasters her phone screen as it lights up, but she doesn’t answer. Instead she pressed her heel further against the gas pedal, speeding down the road until she finds herself at the Stilinski residence.

The Jeep’s in the driveway, as well as the cruiser. They’re both sitting in the driveway as unassuming as cars can be, but instead they just make her angry. She stares at the two vehicles, her face scrunched into a scowl, shoving her door open and stalking toward the door. Out of some sort of petulant spite, she ignores the doorbell and instead pounds her fists against the door.

She should’ve thought this through, because when the Sheriff opens the door startled and in what looks like his pajamas, all her bravado filters out. “Yes?” He asks, peering curiously at the small redhead. 

“I, u-uh,” Lydia can’t bring herself to say anything of the things rolling around her head in the car ride over here. Instead, she looks at the Sheriff. For someone who almost was murdered by a out-of-his-mind werewolf, he looks pretty good. She can tell there are bandages under the cotton tee and his skin is a little paler than normal, but he looks strong. Healthy, even. 

“He’s upstairs.” The Sheriff smiles, opening the door wider. “I told him he needed to call you, but you know how stubborn he can be.”

She snorts, wanting to go on a rant about just how much she knows he can be stubborn, but finds herself deflated. She didn’t realize how much half of this was to see the Sheriff – to see how well he’s healing and make sure she won’t have a scream saved for him anytime soon. “How is he?” She settles on because, what the hell, it really is all she cares about.

The Sheriff frowns, casting a look up the stairs. “Okay, I think.” He says, but she can see the uncertainty in his eyes. “Better than what I thought, to be honest. He doesn’t talk as much as he used to and I think he’s pulling himself away from you guys, but he made me eat broccoli the other night.”

Of course the only thing that gets through his thick skull is his father’s eating habits.

“That said, I’m not going to make him go to school until he feels like it. No clinics this time.” The Sheriff says, his voice low and venomous. “No strangers, no hunters, no sending him faraway. Just us.”

Lydia looks at the ground, wondering if she should leave. If this was a good idea at all.

But then the Sheriff puts a hand on her should, a warm smile on his face. He tilts her head up until she’s forced to look in his eyes and he says softly, “All of us.”

XXX

She knocks on the door tentatively, all the anger and grandiose plans to give Stilinski a piece of her mind filtered out with her conversation with his father. Maybe that was his original goal – a buffer for whatever she had planned. It doesn’t matter if it’s true because it worked.

She’s not sure what she thought he would look like when he swung the door to his room open. She’s seen a lot of different views of Stiles when he’s opened his door to here – beaten, thrilled, sad, and lonely – but she isn’t quite sure how to describe this particular view of Stiles now. 

There are dark rings under his eyes, but they aren’t as prominent. In fact, he looks more relaxed than he has in ages. There’s still that hardness around his eyes, but even that is softening.

She can’t help it.

Lydia smiles. 

Stiles apparently is in the same boat because he returns it, as if he hadn’t been ignoring every single text she’s sent him in the past two weeks.

He opens the door a little wider (for a moment she wondered if he would even let her in), and gestures to the room. It’s still the mess it was before they found him on the table, red strings webbed across the wall. The pictures are all still up. In fact, the only difference is tucked in the corner of his room is a small keyboard, a few wires connected to his computer.

Lydia shuffles in awkwardly as Stiles rubs the back of his head. “So,” he begins.

And that does it.

That one word. That one ‘so’ that makes her rage filter through her once more. ‘So,’ as if the past two weeks haven’t even been a thing. 

“So?” She cries, taking her purse and hitting him with it. “So?” She does it again, only stopping from doing it a third because of the bandages up his arms that remind her of the scream in her throat she gave for him and his still heart on the stone table. “After everything, all you can say is ‘so?’”

Stiles just takes his purse beating and sighs, sitting on the edge of the only clean part of his room – his untouched bed. Lydia huffs a few more moments to prove a point, but then finds herself caving in and seating herself next to him.

“All I needed was a call,” she says softly, hearing the catch in her voice. “Not even a call, but a text. Letting me know that you were alright. That you were… you were still here. It would’ve taken a second, Stiles. A second. And you couldn’t even give me that? I mean, Kira knows more than I do!”

Stiles doesn’t speak for a while. Instead he stares at the strings on his wall, the bandages on his arms – anything. 

“Are you really not talking to me?” Lydia cries. “Really, Stiles?”

“I thought it’d be obvious.” He rasps, his voice old like he hasn’t used it in years. When he finally looks at her, there are tears in his eyes and it breaks every piece that’s left of her heart. All the anger fades away. “I made you lose your best friend. Twice. Why would you ever want to speak to me?”

Lydia sighs, putting her head in her hands. Of course. Back to the self-flagellation technique that Stiles seems to have perfected. She knows she should’ve assumed this was the reason, but she couldn’t rationalize it. And if she couldn’t rationalize it, it was hard for her to consider.

“What about what I think?” Lydia asks, much softer than before. “Does my opinion count at all?”

“You know it does.”

“Well, you sure have a pretty shit way of showing it. Stiles, we all lost…” Lydia winces, the name still difficult. “A-Allison. All of us. And it was horrible. One of the worst things I’d ever experienced. I’d say it’s number two on the grand scheme of things. But do you know what number one is?”

Stiles looks at her, his eyes tired. “Losing her a second time?”

“No, idiot,” Lydia snaps, but the heat isn’t there. “Number One, that horrible, brutal, life-traumatizing Number One is saved for the time I kneeled on top of a stone sacrificing table, watching my other best friend’s blood go through my fingers as he dies. And how I could do nothing to stop it.”

Stiles stills, clutching the sides of his mattress.

“That’s my Number One, Stiles.” Lydia whispers, not caring about the ears flowing down her cheeks. “That’s my Number One. It’s what I see every time I close my eyes. It’s what I feel on my hands. It’s the most horrifying things I’ve ever experienced – and this is coming from the person who was mauled by Peter Hale in the middle of the lacrosse field. That was the most horrible moment of my life. And it’s going to stick with me forever.”

He bows his head.

“And I need my best friend,” she says. Stiles opens his mouth to argue and she knows exactly what he’s about to say, so she puts her hand up. “You. I need you, Stiles. Otherwise I don’t know how I’m going to get over my horrible Number One. You suck at asking for help, but I happen to be amazing at everything. So I’m asking you to help me get over my horrible Number One.”

Stiles looks at her and it takes her breath away. She doesn’t know how she manages to do that with a single look – she never met anyone who could startle her with only their eyes, but he does it. Their soft and warm and feel like home. He hesitantly puts his hand up, it hovering over hers it slightly quakes.

He may suck at asking for help, but that’s what she’s there for.

She goes the rest of the way, intertwining their hands together.

They sit like that for a while.

Then, as if he’s burned, Stiles stands up and rips his hand out of her grasp. “No,” he states, his eyes fierce. “No. No, no, no!”

“Okay,” Lydia says softly, although not entirely sure what she’s saying okay to. “Okay Stiles.”

“God, I hate life sometimes!” He snaps, running his hands through his hair. It unruly and long, as if he’s forgotten that he even has it. “Because I love you and it’s not fair!”

Lydia stiffens.

“I have loved you since the third grade – before I even knew what love was.” He states, now pacing across the room. “And sure, maybe it was an inappropriate crush until high school and maybe it wasn’t even really love, but I’m certain of it now. And now it’s too late!”

Lydia can’t do anything but stare at him. She ignores how her chest clenches and she can no longer feel her toes. “What do you mean?”

“I’m broken!” He says, his words shattering in the room. “You said it yourself! I’m broken! And I don’t know how to fix it! I-I keep messing everything up and I don’t know how to stop! And you’re sitting there, telling me I’m your best friend and how much I mean to you and all I can think of is how much I love you and how much it sucks for you to be loved by someone like me.”

Lydia stands up, grabbing his quaking hands. She holds them there until the shaking stops – or at least mellows – brushing a few tears away with her fingertips. “Depends on your definition of ‘sucks,’ I suppose. Because it is an honor to be loved by someone like you.”

Stiles closes his eyes and crumbles on her shoulder. His sobs are enough to break the strongest of hearts and when it came to Lydia’s heart in regards to Stiles, it wasn’t particularly strong in the matter. She holds onto him like that day in the Hale house, listening to the slowing of his heart and watching his blood rush through her fingers.

She holds him tighter.

After several minutes of this, Stiles straightens a little sheepishly, wiping his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve. “God, that’s not embarrassing at all,” he laughs weakly.

“It shouldn’t be.”

He smiles. But then it falters and he manages, “I don’t know where you are. And honestly, I’m not sure if I want to know. But I-I’m not ready. I-I can’t. I’m barely holding myself together and I can’t focus on anything other than that. I’m sorry Lydia, but I can’t. I just… can’t.”

The last word is so delicate, she wants to catch it in her fingers and never let go. “It’s okay, Stiles. I understand.” She says softly. “Just let me be here. Don’t push me away anymore. Call me when it gets bad. Call me when it’s good. Just let me be here.”

He nods and she wipes a few more tears from his cheek. Then he leans into her palm and the simplicity of that one gesture startles her. It isn’t until he takes it away does she truly realize something.

She feels him more when he’s gone and that scares her.

With a smile, she peers around his room. “Well, what we can do now is redecorate. You seriously need my help. That’s clear now.”

Stiles smiles at her in that way that makes her feel infinite. “Perhaps I do.”

It takes them two hours to get all the pictures and strings off the walls. A garbage bag and three arguments later, Lydia is handing the box of yarn and tacks to the Sheriff. “Please make sure these are never in this house again.” She says with a huff.

“Trust me,” the Sheriff says. “These are the last things I ever want to see here. Well, maybe second to another Darach. Or a vampire?”

Lydia chuckles, catching Stiles as he rolls his eyes at his father. Once she shuts the door again, Stiles sighs, “Ever since his supernatural enlightening, he seems to think that everything’s real. He asked me the other day if I thought we’d ever see a Sphinx. He sounded a little too excited for my comfort.”

Lydia laughs. “At least we know where you get it from.”

Stiles only grins in response, but he looks uncomfortable, which worries Lydia because she thought they finally moved past that. “Everything alright?” She asks.

“There’s actually… one more thing you could help me with. If you don’t mind.” He opens a few drawers and hands her a pair of scissors. Tugging at his unkempt hair, he says softly, “My mom used to always cut it. Which is why I shaved my head for such a long time. Because after she died, it was just… easier. You know?” He meets her gaze, his eyes young – younger than she ever remembered. “I don’t want to just shave it all off.”

Lydia snatches the scissors with a flourish. “You came to the right woman, then.”

Stiles laughs. “Oh, that I’m blissfully aware of.”

She tries to ignore that and instead seats Stiles in front of the bathroom mirror, a towel around his neck. The Sheriff only peeks his head in for a moment, but smiles and walks away. Lydia may be imagining it, but she thinks she hears, “Change is good,” as he passes.

He’s not wrong. 

It’s shocking how well Stiles sits for her, even with his history of fidgetry. She runs her fingers through his hair, snipping at the end, trying to ignore how close she’s getting to his face.

She walks in front of him, pulling the sides of his hair to make sure they’re the same length. She takes her hands away to grab the scissors once more, but he catches her wrist before she can. She can’t be to blame for her heartbeat suddenly going haywire as he pulls her those few inches closer.

It’s simple.

When their lips meet, it’s only for a moment, but it feels like years. Lydia knows time and relativity, so she’s not entire sure how that can be, but that’s how it is. It awakens every part of her body and her chest feels like it’s about to explode.

She feels alive.

When Stiles pulls away, there’s no regret. No embarrassment or second guessing. And that may be the best part.

“Just making sure,” he says in a low voice, his eyes sparkling in a way that makes her chest ache more and realize that she missed even though she didn’t notice.

Rolling her eyes, she grabs the scissors once more. Stiles doesn’t do anything else the remainder of the night and she gets it. She understand that he needs to mend. To no longer be broken.

But she knows he’ll be fine. Once the pieces of his soul return – once they inevitably find their way back into the spastic, loving, and explosive person she knows he is – he’ll be stronger than ever. And maybe they’ll have their chance. Because Lydia knows they could be great.

But even if that isn’t the case, she know she’ll still be here, with him.

Of that, she is sure.

THE END.


End file.
